


ego, opinion, art & commerce

by 24parts



Category: South Park
Genre: (really slow. like. molasses), Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anti-Hero, Cameos, Dick Pics, Existential Crisis, Frenemies, Friendship, Id Fic, M/M, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Canon, Redemption, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Touring, Unreliable Narrator, unlikely gay friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 121,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9111331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24parts/pseuds/24parts
Summary: The story went that Butters had an aunt out in California who knew a guy who knew a guy whose sister lived next door to a Chili Pepper, or something, andMoop’s domino chain started with a demo in the mail and a swift leg up, and the long, hot summer after graduation spent out West recording.Craig had asked around, but he didn’t know anyone who knew anyone who could helpCraig and Those Guysget farther than a bowling alley in Kansas City.As it turned out, in reality, they didn’t quite make it as far as a bowling alley in Kansas City. They made it to a truck stop restaurant around forty minutes away from a bowling alley in Kansas City, and then everything went to hell.





	1. a night at the opera

   No matter how many times Craig thought his life would end, it didn't. It just kept going.

   This was one of those times.

  
-v-

  
   The story went that Butters had an aunt out in California who knew a guy who knew a guy whose sister lived next door to a Chili Pepper, or something, and the domino chain started with a demo in the mail and a swift leg up, and the long, hot summer after graduation spent out West recording.

   All that summer, Craig heard stories about the adventures of Moop in Los Angeles and beyond. It was inescapable. He couldn't line up at Whole Foods or stop at the M-Burger drive thru without hearing something: that they'd trashed a room at the Chateau Marmont; that Kyle's mom had threatened to literally murder him for skipping out on law school at the last second; that Kenny had screwed a Kardashian. Stan and Wendy's outrageous breakup the night before their first single dropped was all over Facebook. Seventeen people texted him the link to an interview where Eric Cartman offhandedly referred to him by name while discussing his supposed lifelong support of gay rights. There were too many pictures of palm trees on Instagram.

   And when their hit single, and subsequent hit album, was released, the radio was definitely the worst.

   It wasn't that Craig hated the song. He'd always found Cartman's vocals grating, even though Bebe and Clyde -- who knew what they were talking about -- claimed that his voice was actually "unique" and "technically not bad". _I Am Reminded_ wasn't the worst song Craig had ever heard, even if it was kind of cryptic and weird and sung by Eric Cartman. It had a way of evoking a feeling, some kind of phantom emotion, in everyone who heard it. Nobody knew what the song meant but they knew it meant something to someone - it was one of those ballads that could be played at proms or weddings or funerals and for any pivotal moment on any television show. Craig theorized that this was directly related to the news he got a month after the song's release: that Kenny had bought himself a nice house in Miami, despite having never set foot in Florida at the time.

   Craig wasn't bitter, either. He was happy for them, kind of. Not so much Stan, who seemed now to have been born for the role of the wholesome-yet-smug guitarist, basking in the limelight and talking at length in interviews about how deep and meaningful his band's songs were -- clearly he wrote most of them. Or Kyle, who always gave Craig these weird, pitying glances whenever they passed each other in the street during Kyle's numerous visits home, after his family turned out not to be murderous. Or Cartman, at all, because that ship had sailed a long time ago.

   But he could at least be happy for Butters. That kid seemed determined to ride on the coattails of the success he'd created until he could ride no more. Craig was pretty sure his official job description was the driver of their van, but he hadn't returned to South Park once since he left, making excuses to his parents about being busy with work. In Craig's opinion, he had the right idea.

   So no, it wasn't the mediocre singles or the not-so-great people who made them. It was the way that he couldn't get away from it. The local radio station loved them, even _Bebe_  kind of liked them. Craig's mom had a _Moop_  t-shirt in her closet and so did his sister.

   It was the way that the entirety of South Park, Colorado, was supposed to be a dedicated fan club. Their lives, in comparison, were so small. It turned out that people had different ways of dealing with that, and a lot of them rallied, and some of them moped, and some of them worked hard to catch up, when they could.

   Craig had asked around, but he didn't know anyone who knew anyone who could help _Craig and Those Guys_  get farther than a bowling alley in Kansas City.

   As it turned out, in reality, they didn't quite make it as far as a bowling alley in Kansas City. They made it to a truck stop restaurant around forty minutes away from a bowling alley in Kansas City, and then everything went to hell.

   Craig wanted to lay his head down on the table and stay there, except the table was made of frigid metal and ringed with old coffee cup stains. It was late, the window against the booth showing a black sky and almost empty highway, from what he could make out behind the reflection of the fluorescent lighting. One of the bulbs was out and another one was flickering. He was collecting these imperfections into a list because when Clyde got back, they could all really make a session of it, picking holes in this place, to cheer up marginally from the night they've had.

   Craig imagined it as one of the flyers Bebe would draw out for their shows, get photocopied at her mom's work, and staple up all over town.

   Event: pity party.

   Venue: deserted truck stop restaurant with no truckers, where everything smells stale in a stomach-churning way.

   Audience: one sour-looking waitress, barely paying them any attention after initially taking their order, reading a magazine at a table across the room.

   It was one of those nights, and not for the first time, Craig put his head in his hands and wondered if it may have been the case that the whole band thing just wasn't working out.

   They'd been doing okay, hiring randoms on a monthly basis to fill in for Token, even though none of those guys really _got_  the music, and seemed to all come with a heavy dose of pretension that Craig could have done without. Bebe wasn't half as good of a manager as Jimmy was; she had none of his patience or charm, but she had other things going for her. Clyde had theorized privately that the only thing that got them booked anywhere at all was the fact that, thanks to Bebe, they weren't just another greasy post-adolescent Coloradan sausage fest; and Craig was, privately, inclined to agree with him.

   "What was his deal, anyway?" Bebe said, bitterly, even though Thad told them in very explicit detail exactly what his deal was, very _loudly_. She had been picking at her nails since they got here, flaking red polish onto the red metal tabletop.

   Craig shrugged. "He thought he was too good to play at a bowling alley. I guess," he added, even though he was quoting pretty much verbatim. ' _To good to'_  was definitely a phrase that was used, as well as _'you assholes'_ and ' _on a road to absolutely fucking nowhere'_  and _I quit, I quit, I quit_.

   All of their things were piled up in the next booth over, as well as in their own. It looked unsightly; a mess of black drum cases, Clyde's cherry-red Fender Strat, three laptop bags and one loose iPad, some crammed-full backpacks, and four totes of food that were a little worse for wear. Thad had tossed everything right onto the asphalt, unceremoniously, as he purged the van -- _his_  van -- of everything that held the insignia of _Craig and Those Guys_ , or their fingerprints, or their aura.

   And then he drove off, and they were lucky he at least decided to rant until they were in the vicinity of the next truck stop before dumping them on the side of the road, or someone would've had to have caved and called their parents.

   With food, shelter and coffee, Craig was pretty sure that they could make it through this.

   Bebe glanced, not very subtly, towards the door to the men's room. Clyde had been in there for the last twenty minutes, presumably pressing cold paper towels to his eyes to make it look like he didn't burst into tears the moment his precious baby Fender hit the ground.

   "Still," she said. "What a dick."

   "Yeah." Craig frowned, remembering the stray drumstick that rolled out onto the road, only to get run over by an eighteen-wheeler before Craig could do a thing about it. He wouldn't miss that one drumstick, but it was the principle of the whole thing. "Seriously."

   Thad was like the opposite of the Radiohead guy: instead of always looking down, he looked up instead, but never at the crowd. Craig didn't exactly _like_ that about him, but it was one more personality trait than most of their temporary bassists had. The fact that he also owned his own touring van was another bonus. The apparently massive and unrestrained ego, not so much.

   Something caught Bebe's eye, and abruptly, she sat up a little straighter. "Here he comes."

   Clyde looked sheepish as he returned, but a lot less distraught than he did before. It really showed what an asshole Thad was, Craig thought, that he didn't stop his tirade even after Clyde broke down. Though, it was possible that he'd been with them long enough to have wised up to the fact that Clyde would cry over spilled milk of any variety, by nature. It didn't matter - it still bothered Craig when it happened.

   Clyde walked right past their table at first. Craig craned his neck to watch Clyde collect his guitar, which was resting case-less and propped up against the booth of the table next to them, amongst the rest of the overspill. He took it into his arms, and when he slid into the booth across from them, he lay it down with care, the neck in his lap and the body on the seat.

   "Talking about me?" he asked, glancing between them.

   "No, but we will be." Bebe raised an eyebrow. "Attachment disorder much?"

   Clyde's hand drifted to touch the body of the guitar; unconsciously, and protectively. "It was a close call, okay? He had no respect for her. She probably has some scratches now."

   "I know," Craig chipped in. "I lost a drumstick out there."

   "My phone charger was up front and he didn't give it back." Bebe tipped her head back against the booth, sighed dramatically, and addressed her frustrations to the ceiling. "What an _asshole_. He wasn't even that good! He kept screwing with that one part of _Root Beer_ , too, like there was anything _wrong_  with the way Token wrote it -- who the hell does he even think he is?"

   "A guy who doesn't want to get paid," Clyde said.

   Bebe snorted. "True."

   Outside, headlights flashed. Most of the world seemed to be asleep by now, the passing cars on the nearby highway just an anomaly. Craig couldn't imagine what it would be like to work in a place like this, up all night waiting tables, nowhere to look but out at the hazy abyss.

   "So, speaking of Token..." Clyde took a sip of his coffee and grimaced at it, reaching for the sugar packets.

   "He said he can't come any earlier than Monday sometime." Bebe drummed her fingers on the screen of her phone, which was resting on the table, face-up and ready for any further news. "And that he forgives us for not showing, given the circumstances of only having twenty-two dollars between us and having been abandoned on the side of the road by his replacement."

   "What a dick," Clyde said; about Thad, presumably.

   Thad, he had said, had family in Connecticut and was planning to spend the summer there. It was what sealed the deal on their whole arrangement; a few bookings in Colorado, and then a road trip to the East Coast, playing a few shows along the way if they could scrounge up any openings. Then they'd unload their stuff into the second-hand tour bus Token claimed he would have procured by then, get the band back together, and spend the whole glorious summer some place, finally finishing that debut album they'd been hammering away at since high school.

   That was the worst part of the whole thing. Thad was going there anyway, and he couldn't even bear to let them ride along.

   "He screwed us on purpose." Craig wished he'd savoured it more when he'd flipped Thad off that last time, right in his face, around the part where he said they had no future in the music industry. And when he'd flipped off his van as it drove away, keeping his hand up high and his finger up proud, and hoping Thad could see it in his rear view mirror. And all of the times before that, too, when it was more of a casual thing. "He just screwed us. That's how much he hated us for, like, basically no reason."

   It was Saturday now, by minutes. Soon, Clyde would begin to catastrophize about what they were going to have to do to get back to South Park -- probably his brain was already whipping up some terrible fantasies about hitch-hiking with potential axe murderers, or sucking off truckers to furnish the transit from here to the city and then city to Denver, Denver to home. Then Bebe would try to be optimistic about it, but fail, because optimism had never been her forte. Then both of them would turn on Craig for having nothing helpful to say, and he'd show them the power of silence by flipping them off, and they'd bicker for hours and yearn for Token while they did. He was the one who always kept a level head without being a dick about it, a skill which, according to his bandmates, Craig had not yet mastered.

   For now, there was the bitter limbo. The situation was dire but it was dire because of Thad, and they had the time to sit and seethe and hate him, which was so much easier than trying to pick up the pieces.

   "God," Craig said. He was examining, again, the rings of dried coffee on the tabletop. He tried to scratch one off with his fingernail, and it didn't budge. "Do they not clean the tables here?"

   "Would you?" Clyde nodded over at the waitress, still reading her magazine, and didn't bother lowering his voice when he said, "I'm surprised she even cares enough to serve the coffee."

   "It smells like carsickness. And there's a draft. How is there a draft? It's fucking hot outside."

   "I miss Token's car," Bebe said glumly. "Remember how it used to smell like a caramel frappe?"

   "I miss Token," Clyde said, resting his chin in his hand.

   Craig felt a gust of air on the back of his neck before he heard the door open, or really registered it through the spin-cycle of irritated thoughts he had going. Some reflex had him keeping his gaze vaguely on Clyde, who had gone slightly pale as he looked over Craig's shoulder, though it might have just been the lighting -- or it might be Thad, Craig realised. In fact it almost certainly was, coming to apologize, to grovel, for upsetting Clyde and breaking Craig's drumstick and stealing Bebe's charger and generally just being a shitty temporary bandmate.

   "Hey, excuse me," said a voice, at the counter now. That voice, he thought, must have come directly from Craig's nightmares just to screw with him, to make this day somehow worse than it had any right to be, because there was no way he was actually hearing it here, _now_ \-- "Do you guys do coffee to go?"

   Craig very, very slowly turned his head. For some reason his brain expected orange parka, but instead got grey hoodie, the back of a fluffy honey-blond head, and a mostly-flat ass in extremely tight black jeans.

   It wasn't Thad.

   "Oh my god." The waitress scrambled to her feet and dropped her pitcher, and there was a resounding _clang_  as it hit the table next to her on its way to the floor. "You're... you're?"

   "Yeah." Craig was trying not to stare openly, but he saw Kenny give her an easy smile as he bent down to retrieve the pitcher, like he got this everywhere he went. "You're a fan?"

   When he gave it back, she took it with trembling hands. "Oh god, yes. Wow. Um. Will you sign my--?" She patted herself down for a notebook or a scrap of paper or anything else and came up empty; Craig could clearly see the little pad she took orders on just out of her eyeline, on the table she was sitting at, now behind her. "--um. My bra?"

   Craig frowned. Kenny had retained and perfected that effortless boy-next-door look he'd had going for him since middle school. His hair wasn't neat but stayed just this side of unkempt, and the weather hadn't been impressive in Colorado, but Kenny had a hint of a tan, and a mess of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Bright-eyed and blond, he got more attention than most drummers ever did, and it was not difficult to see why female fans would have few reservations about taking their shirts off for him.

   "You have got to be kidding me," Clyde said, distantly and under his breath.

   "Jesus," Bebe said. Craig could see in his periphery that her nails had almost no polish left on them now, and he felt the table shift when it took some of her weight as she leaned forward, looking past him at the scene unfolding.

   "Sure." Kenny took a marker from the back pocket of his jeans, unfazed -- the waitress was unbuttoning her uniform shirt and all three of them were staring, not that she noticed or cared. The bra underneath turned out to be a light sky-blue colour, all firm and no-frills. Craig wondered what would have happened if she'd been wearing something that wouldn't hold an autograph, like black or lace, and if she would've asked Kenny to sign her bare chest instead.

   Kenny just barely had to bend at the knees to be eye-level with her breasts. "Right here?" he asked, hovering the tip of the marker over the left cup.

   "Please," the waitress said, breathless. "If that's okay."

   By the expression on Kenny's face, it was more than okay. Craig could just make out the words from where he was sitting -- Kenny on the left cup, McCormick on the right, all written out in a practised flourish. "You'd better keep your shirt open a while, until it dries," Kenny told her, straightening up again, and the waitress squealed in a way that, ten minutes ago, Craig would not have believed she was capable of.

   "Will you sign mine too?" Bebe asked, once the waitress had scurried off, and Craig closed his eyes, because it seemed like the thing to do.

   Kenny strode over and sat himself down in their booth with no more eloquent of a greeting than, "holy shit," and a grin that showed off teeth that had definitely had something done to them since Craig last saw him, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what. He slid in next to Clyde, who only protectively shifted Rosie down to rest between his legs. Immediately, he seemed to take up the entire booth, and Craig felt slightly claustrophobic in his presence.

   They had been friends once, Craig supposed. They were friends in the way that Kenny had been everyone's friend, in the way that Craig had had many friends before they all split off, the summer after their eighteenth birthdays, and Craig found out that without being crammed into classrooms together every day, only a small handful of people ever felt the inclination to keep up contact. Kenny wasn't one of them, and unlike the others, he didn't come back to town for the holidays. Rumour had it that he flew his sister out to Miami and enrolled her in a private school there, and since Craig hadn't seen Karen since graduation either, he figured it must be true.

   Craig thought this was how a paranormal encounter must feel; chilling and slightly surreal and undoubtedly bad omen. He couldn't think of a single thing he wanted to say to Kenny McCormick, but that was okay; Kenny's forearms rested on the table and he launched straight into the small talk.

   "Small world, right? How are you guys?" He glanced over Craig's shoulder and noticed the equipment piled up behind him. "Still doing the band thing? Wow," he said to Bebe. "You look different."

   It was what everyone said to Bebe. The same tattoos that sometimes got her suspicious looks from some of South Park's older population were on full display thanks to her sleeveless tank top, and Kenny reached out, indicating that he wanted to touch. She let him; her gaze followed Kenny's finger as it traced an inked-on tentacle from her shoulder downwards, exploring the shipwreck motif at the crook of her elbow and the mermaid that sat upon the protruding bone of her wrist, her tail dipping down and splitting into two fins parallel to where the thumb and forefinger split from the back of Bebe's hand.

   "Sure," Craig said. "Are you?"

   Bebe kicked him under the table.

   "You know it," he said. Kenny was positively beaming, like he was among friends. Like he was actually happy to see them. Craig almost pitied him. "The guys are at a hotel right now. They wanted coffee and I needed the fresh air."

   "Yeah? How is everybody?" Bebe asked, as though she did not follow them on all forms of social media. Craig considered pulling out his phone and pretending to be too busy to care, but he just didn't feel like he could do it. Kenny hadn't even touched his phone yet, and he probably had more people calling him on a daily basis than Craig had in his entire life.

   "They're good, still jet-lagged," Kenny said. "Honestly, I'm not even sure what day it is now, it's been so crazy since we got back from Japan."

   "It's Saturday," Craig said, tonelessly, just as Clyde said, "It's Friday."

   "Oh," Kenny said, nodding.

   "And how is Kyle?" Bebe asked, sweetly. "Still single?"

   "And still gay," Kenny replied, and then glanced at Craig and raised his eyebrows. Craig realised that he was still somewhat uncomfortable with the fact that he could actually see Kenny McCormick's eyebrows. "Why, who's asking?"

   "Not me," Craig said, wondering where the hell the waitress was. Maybe she was calling the press. He hoped so. Maybe Kenny would be carried out of this truck stop by a tidal wave of reporters, and one of them would drop a hundred dollar bill, and this would all be over and done with.

   Clyde turned to Bebe and said, "What is this conversation? You don't still like Kyle."

   Bebe raised her eyebrows. "On whose account?"

   "Um, on the account of you were eight, and you left him for me. You said my ass was better," Clyde said.

   They both looked at Craig as though he would have something to say about it. He'd been there, a witness, during every one of Clyde and Bebe's on-again-off-again spells. This included the final one, which lasted most of sophomore year and ended with an amicable breakup and a lasting friendship that Craig still could not wrap his head around. That friendship was the single biggest display of emotional maturity that Clyde had ever made, in Craig's opinion -- he knew that being friends with an ex wasn't an easy thing, but for all these years, the two of them had been making it work.

   Craig pushed his hair back with one hand and pointedly stared at the tabletop, though he swore he could see Kenny smirking at him in his periphery. Maybe he had imagined it, but Kenny was always strangely perceptive. Like he knew everybody's shit, sometimes even more than they knew it themselves.

   "Well," Bebe said, "it was, but still, I was just curious. He gets cuter every year, have you noticed that?"

   "No I haven't," Clyde said, though Craig figured the question was probably not directed at him.

   "I'll tell him you said so, anyway," Kenny said, and Bebe looked pleased. He tapped a short little refrain on the tabletop with his fingers before addressing the elephant in the room, glancing out of the window as he did. "So are you waiting on a ride, or something?"

   There was a painful moment of silence. Clyde took a noisy slurp of his coffee and Bebe slumped down in her seat. Moments like these reminded Craig why the band had his name in it and not theirs.

   "Our ride bailed." Craig shrugged when Kenny frowned, sympathetic. "Yeah. He was a dick. And a thief," he said, remembering the phone charger.

   "What an asshole," Kenny agreed easily. "Who does that?"

   Bebe took it upon herself to tell the rest of the story; how they were meeting up for Token's graduation but had no chance of making it now, how this was supposed to be the road trip of their lives, how they had grand plans to record and play shows and get famous but had instead ended up here with no hope and no money. She said these things casually, but Kenny was an empathetic sort of person and Craig knew it was only a matter of time before that kicked in all on its own.

   That was, until Clyde perked up suddenly. "So are you offering? Because we're kind of stranded."

   Now it was Craig's turn to kick someone under the table.

   "I can take you back to the hotel, sure," Kenny said, without hesitating, leaning back in his seat. He sat with his legs spread far apart, and Craig wondered if this was a habit picked up from drumming or from soaking up the arrogance of his friends. "If you want? It's not that great but it's definitely not full. So there's that."

   "Screw it," Bebe said, looking around for approval. "We can't stay here."

   Craig had to bite back a groan. He knew she was right -- Craig wondered why Kenny thought they were in a position to be picky, because to him, it didn't look that way from any angle. He didn't really want Kenny McCormick's help, but he also didn't want to endure a drive back to South Park in Bebe's mom's Nissan, crushed under drum cases in the back seat, back through the wheat fields and the snow-topped mountains, back to where he started.

   "It's fine by me," Clyde said. "I like hotels."

   Craig got to his feet, and announced, "I'm going to brush my teeth first."

   He felt three pairs of eyes watching him go.

  
-v-

 

   So Craig lived, and as he brushed his teeth with bottled water in the truck stop bathroom, he considered that.

   It had all seemed so daunting once. Back in high school, everything was life-or-death in one way or another. Everybody had a plan for college and beyond, and Craig had learned the hard way that it didn't work out for everybody. But it wasn't hard for long. It turned out that surviving was easier than he'd imagined; it was easy, so easy, to just live, and work at a job he didn't particularly like, and sleep in his childhood bedroom and record songs with his friends on the weekends and have no real plan.

   No real plan, until now, until Connecticut and the East Coast and the album, and the summer.

   And here they were. Middle of nowhere, Kansas. Stranded. They weren't making it to the bowling alley, or the graduation; before the end of the week, they'd be back in South Park, and the album would be perpetually unfinished, and things would continue to be so very easy.

   It turned out that being twenty-something in South Park was a special thing, a title that few people held. There were Craig and Bebe, who voluntarily grounded their academic careers after high school; Clyde, who dropped out after one semester due to what was apparently sheer laziness and far too many unfinished assignments; Timmy, who was always wrapped up in projects at the community center and barely gave the rest of them the time of day anymore; and Tweek, who somehow stayed in school until graduation and then subsequently became a full-time recluse who Craig had seen around town maybe five or six times in the past four years. He didn't keep in touch, which was the one thing they still had in common.

   And there were newcomers; the two newlyweds living in the red house across the street, and Ms Cartman's tall, dark and handsome new boyfriend were in that age range as well. Craig had witnessed a few lodgers, a few transients. But everyone else from school had gotten the hell out, some way or another. Even Kenny McCormick had managed to escape South Park before Craig had. Even Scott Malkinson.

   But at least Clyde hadn't. The thought helped, a little.

   Craig spit into the sink and then held onto it until the room stopped spinning, and then he left the bathroom with better posture than he entered it with and found Bebe sitting alone, and Kenny at the counter again, paying. He raised his eyebrows at her and she gestured, with her shoulder, to the window. Craig passed the table by and went outside.

   It was still hot out, but not sticky-hot; a breeze was coming from somewhere out beyond the expanse of the road, and then the fields. The highway wasn't far, and Craig could see the lights. He could also see Clyde, easily, because he was the only person around -- he was loitering by the neon sign, his hair cast in a strange, blue glow. Craig wandered over, past the asphalt stretch and the fuel pumps, with his hands in his pockets, trying to think of something to say.

   He could say sorry for flipping off Thad a hundred times and potentially leading to his narcissistic meltdown that resulted in them being abandoned on the side of the road. He could apologize for leaving Clyde to deal with Kenny and his obnoxiously white teeth for ten minutes while he, himself, hid in the bathroom. He could point out that there was no way Stan Marsh looked as good in real life as he did on that _Rolling Stone_  cover two months ago, and that picking out the discrepancies between photoshop-Stan and real Stan promised at least some degree of entertainment in the near future.

   He failed to say any of these things. Clyde heard him coming and spoke first instead. "We could write a song about this."

   It had been a long time since they'd written any new material. The thought was, in itself, almost amusing to Craig.

   "A song called 'Fuck My Entire Life and Especially Thad'?" Craig stared up at the stars; they were bright here, just like at home. He took out his phone to see if he could catch this on film, the bright stars or the lurid neons, but none of it really showed up right on camera, so he put it away again and found that it didn't particularly bother him. "Honestly, I don't think I want to remember today."

   "At least it's a story." Clyde shrugged. "For interviews later down the line."

   Craig looked at him, and found no words for what he saw. Clyde didn't seem unfazed, exactly, but hopeful. He wasn't the dithering mess Craig had expected, wringing his hands, worrying about blowing truckers for transit. He seemed almost content to stand here on the edge of a field in the middle of the night and take it all in. Craig wondered if this was because he had cried, and momentarily envied people who had those in-built release switches that seemed to be missing from his particular model. Still, he said, "I don't know how you can still be like that when this stuff keeps happening to us."

   "This has only happened the one time." Clyde squinted, furrowing his brow. "I'm pretty sure."

   "You know what I mean. Us getting screwed over by the universe." Craig shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, though it wasn't cold. "I just don't get it. Did we step on too many sidewalk cracks when we were kids, or something?"

   The door opened far behind them, the sound like a suction cup being slowly pulled away from a surface. Craig could hear Bebe laughing at something Kenny had said, their voices carrying through the still night. He turned to watch; they both had cardboard cup-holders of coffee in their hands, and Kenny was walking her to his car, parked on the other side of the building. Bebe was walking backwards, her posture loose, open; she disappeared around the corner first, though Craig could still hear her exclaim, "You did _not_  go skinny dipping with David Bowie" -- and then it happened.

   Kenny paused under a streetlight and, for just a moment, he looked back over his shoulder, and Craig did not think that he smiled. The white light engulfed him, and then it didn't. Time stood still. Craig regretted putting away his phone but at the same time knew that this halo, this pale aura, was something only the naked eye could see. He found himself reminded, stupidly, of angels -- of guardian angels with heaven at their backs.

   And then Kenny rounded the corner and was gone.

   Craig blinked. "Did you see that?"

   "Yep." Clyde sighed, shifting his weight. "They weren't carrying anything but the stupid coffee. It's not like Bebe's stuff is in there or anything. Guess it's up to us."

   Huffing, he started off towards the restaurant, and the moment was thoroughly broken, so Craig followed along behind, as he always did.

 

-v-

 

   Kenny turned out not to have a car -- or at least, not with him. Craig and Clyde found themselves loading their things into a Moop tour bus, with the name emblazoned in curly magenta lettering on the side, and more than enough room for another set of instruments in the back. With Kenny driving, it left the three of them to sit awkwardly in the van's little lounge area, which was not unlike the booth they'd been sitting in in the diner, though quite a bit cleaner. Underneath the clutter, it was sleek. All cherry woods and black velvet, with accents of hairspray cans and discarded underwear. Craig recognised pictures of an older Karen and a younger Ike in amongst the peeling, saved flyers and reminder-coated post-it notes -- (and in Kenny's case, Playboy favourites) -- that passed as decor, all sellotaped to the plasterboard.

   The hotel wasn't far but the drive seemed to be. Craig kept himself drawn in, stilted. Clyde pulled out a notebook and launched into his arduous songwriting process, muttering things under his breath, tapping the paper with his pen in a way that would have been irritating if Craig was not so unnaturally okay with just about anything Clyde did. The bunks looked comfortable, and would have been inviting if not for their usual occupants. The incessant roar of the air conditioning drowned out some of the road noise. Craig rested his eyes and fantasied about sheets, sleep, and trashy late-night television. He could feel Bebe shivering beside him, trying to keep her hands warm on the coffee she'd been left in charge of. Clyde did not give her his jacket, and Craig couldn't bring himself to think less of him for it.

   When they finally pulled up to the hotel, he, too, felt frigid. It was more in the sense that he was weary, his heart not bothering to pump blood to his extremities at it's usual rate, and now that he thought about it, he couldn't quite remember when he had last eaten. He exchanged a look with Clyde as they left the bus that communicated this -- that the wandering of their respective thoughts had taken them to the same conclusion. But it was too late now to do anything about it, so as they followed Kenny to the front door, Craig asked instead, "How'd the writing go?"

   "It's a process," Clyde said.

   "Guys," Bebe said, holding the door open for them. She'd somehow made it about ten paces in front and Craig did not hurry to catch up.

   The air conditioning in the hotel's lobby was almost as harsh as it was in the tour bus. The place was more like an inn than anything, seemingly a hundred years old and three stories tall, presumably chosen by _Moop_ because their driver was about to pass out, and not because they really liked the place. It was pleasant enough, though Craig found the sickly-green tones in the decor questionable, and might have dredged up some more issues with the place if he hadn't been so tired. As it was, he was content to hang back beside a radiator and let Kenny handle everything.

   "Two twin rooms, please," Kenny said to the girl behind the desk. She was young, black-haired, and she was chewing bubblegum - even from his fair distance, Craig could smell it.

   He pretended to be engrossed in a game of _Pet Rescue Saga_  and thanked God that he'd decided to take his cell phone with him. He hadn't paid the bill in months, and was slowly becoming comfortable with that. He mostly carried it around for the camera; his prized Nikon stayed firmly in its case at all times when not in use, because as much as he wished he could be one of those douchebags who kept their equipment around their neck or in their pocket constantly, he also felt inclined to protect his camera like it was a helpless baby guinea pig, or one of the doe-eyed animals in this game. He wished he could get service still. He'd love to take a picture of the back of Kenny's head and send it to his sister.

   The girl tapped at the computer. "Sure thing. I like your jacket," she added, in a way that Craig could only describe as forced-casual. On a night this mild, he didn't have to look up from his phone to know who she was speaking to -- Craig was pretty sure that they could be standing on the literal surface of the sun and Clyde would still feel the need to wear that letter jacket everywhere -- but he did anyway, just to see it for himself. Her comment left a bad taste in his mouth, and the way she shot a smile Clyde's way made it worse.

   Openly, Craig stared at her. She lived in Kansas. Maybe she was not very familiar with jackets.

   "Thanks," Clyde said, taken aback for only a split-second before he was smiling back, eyeing her name badge, "Jaclyn."

   She giggled -- actually giggled. Craig shot Bebe a look of disbelief, expecting her to reciprocate, but found her rooting through her purse instead, completely oblivious. "Call me Jackie. That's eighty-four dollars, please."

   Craig took a better look at Jaclyn. She was inoffensive, he decided. Her outfit looked a little ridiculous, an ill-fitting white blouse and a pair of black pants, but he could not blame her for this because it was presumably her uniform. Her hair was tied in a ponytail but it was long; Craig knew that Clyde liked girls with long hair. And it was jet black. Clyde hadn't shown interest a girl with dark hair since they watched The Matrix in middle school. Craig would remember if he had.

   She didn't notice him staring. Wordlessly, he went back to Pet Rescue Saga.

   "Kenny..." Bebe said, and then bit her lip. She exposed the inside of her purse to him; twenty bucks. The other two dollars were in Craig's back pocket and he would rather sleep in a dumpster than hand them over to Kenny McCormick for anything. "The thing is, we're kind of in some trouble right now."

   "So what time do you get off?" Clyde was leaning on the desk now. Craig found himself taking a step away from it. He didn't want to be a part of either conversation -- he didn't want to hear Kenny's reaction to their financial issues, nor did he want to acknowledge the way Clyde's eyes slid down to look at Jaclyn's ass when she turned around to get the room keys off the hook behind her. He wanted to go to bed, ideally. He wanted to be very, very unconscious.

   "Don't worry about it," Kenny said. He lay his credit card down on the desk; it had already been in his hand. Like he knew, or just assumed, how broke they were. "I always knew I'd get that hundred bucks back to you someday," he added, and grinned at Craig. He was always grinning. Maybe he always had been, and Craig had just never noticed because of the parka he used to wear.

   "Any time you want," Jaclyn said. She gave them two keys; 203 and 204. "I can get someone to cover for me."

   "Oh my God," Craig said, but no-one heard him, which made him wonder if the words had actually left his lips at all or if he had just wanted to say them. He didn't care either way.

   "This is so sweet of you," Bebe was saying. "It's just that Thad really screwed us, you know?"

   Clyde took one of the keys from the table. "Great, well..." He turned the tag around, showing it to her. "I'll be here all night."

   Craig knew in that moment that Clyde's intentions would be in no way changed by his presence, and he felt his palms begin to sweat. "Please let me room with you," he said, lowly, to Bebe.

   It must have sounded more desperate than he intended, judging by the way she looked at him, but she just shrugged and took the other key.

   "We should all get drinks tomorrow night," Kenny suggested as they headed towards the elevator. Craig knew what that meant and so he pretended he hadn't heard it. He didn't ask where Kenny planned on getting drinks around here. Maybe he was thinking of taking a crate of beer out into a field, the way they used to drink when they were teenagers, in the untamed grass by the pond. Sometimes Craig was even invited.

   Somehow Craig had ended up with most of their bags, trailing a few paces behind. The carpet felt thin under his feet, and the ceiling felt low. He wondered what breakfast would be like tomorrow and whether Jaclyn would be there. He wondered what was the matter with him that the thought didn't make him feel pissed off, but rather strangely numb, like pins and needles. Like something was squeezing off his circulation, and he was letting it.

   Bebe made all the right noises about Kenny's proposal. They were making plans that Craig was sure he could deal with later, and he tried to tune out phrases like 'finally catch up' and 'craft beer' and 'Stan' that echoed in the claustrophobic space. There was a rust problem, Craig noticed. Instead of a door, the elevator had a diamond-pattered network of bars, like a cage. This only reinforced Craig's earlier assessment that the place was a hundred years old.

   The cage closed firmly in front of them. The elevator began to move; it was rickety, producing sounds that elevated Craig's already mild panic. Clyde leaned back against the railing and exhaled deeply, and, as if on a personal mission to make things worse, he said, "I'm totally having sex tonight."

   Bebe rolled her eyes and shifted the tote on her shoulder. "We know, Clyde."

   "Congratulations, man." Kenny was probably smiling again. Craig didn't know. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the ugly pattern on the carpet.

   They stepped out onto the second floor, and their conversation was interrupted by a shrill voice that could only belong to Kyle Broflovski.

   "This is so _fucking_  typical!" he was screaming, from inside one of the rooms. Craig blinked. The last he'd seen of Kyle Broflovski was last winter, when he'd had the misfortune of running into Kyle on his way home from Sooper Foods, outside the Broflovski house, and Kyle had arms full of wrapped Hanukkah gifts and made some comment about being glad to see Craig out and about -- he'd forgotten the exact words but he remembered the tone he'd used, and the names he'd called Kyle on the phone to Clyde later that day. The time before that had been a two-page spread about Kyle's New York loft in _People_.

   "Jesus Christ, would you keep your voice down?" Eric Cartman said, just as loudly.

   "Well, shit. I guess it's not over," Kenny said, flatly. He stopped at his door -- 201 -- and hovered there, listening to the muffled argument in 202. There were more than two voices, but Craig couldn't make them out.

   "Now I see why you needed fresh air," Bebe remarked. "What happened?"

   Kenny shook his head, looking haunted. "You don't want to know. I just hope you guys can still get some sleep."

   "We'll be fine," Craig said. He could bring himself to feel neither irritated by, nor smug about, the argument -- he had never in his life been so relieved to see the door to a hotel room and wasn't interested in much else. While Kenny said his goodnights, his thoughts were all wrapped up in peace and quiet and sheets and pleasant dreams. Almost in a daze, he headed for his room as soon as Kenny had disappeared into his own.

   "Dude," Clyde said, stopping him while Bebe went into the room by herself; Craig reached out to prevent the door from closing completely, keeping it ajar with one hand. "I just wanted to say thank you, for like... being so calm earlier. I think you really stopped all hell from breaking loose."

   "What?" Craig bit his tongue to stop from saying exactly what he thought -- that all hell had already broken loose, and that the process had not exactly ended. He paused just long enough to hear something smash in the next room; a thrown plate, or maybe the window. Maybe someone was getting the hell out of here in a way that Craig only wished he could. "What do you mean?"

   "I feel way better now." From the way Clyde was talking, Craig almost expected a hug, but instead, Clyde just leaned against the door to his own room. He crossed his arms and smiled, a little blearily. "It was a rough night but I really think we're gonna be okay."

   "Of course we'll be okay," Craig said, though he didn't believe it.

   "Well. Thanks, anyway." Clyde scuffed his shoe on the carpet. "Goodnight."

   Craig gave a half-smile and Clyde lingered there a moment longer, as if waiting for something else to happen, but nothing did and so he left, closing his door behind him. For a long, strange moment, Craig found himself wondering what might happen if he stayed exactly where he was. Just stood here outside Clyde's door until Jackie came calling, and flipped her off and told her to go back to her desk and leave them alone. He knew he'd never do it -- not just because Clyde would almost certainly overhear, but also because it was pathetic on a level that Craig was not yet prepared to sink to -- but the thought was satisfying anyway. The idea that he could intervene, buy a little more time. That he, in fact, had some control.

   But making sure Clyde slept alone every night was selfish, and Craig was a lot of things, but he wasn't that. So he retreated to his room, and just in time.

   "Fuck you Kyle," Cartman yelled on the other side of the wall, a dramatic exit clearly imminent. "And fuck you Wendy."

  
-v-

  
   "Well someone's desperate," Craig said the moment the door closed behind him.

   The room was as he expected. Two beds on opposite walls, a closet, a desk, an ancient-looking television. The colour scheme looked like it may once have been cream but had shifted to a sort of mildewed brown over the years. The light switch also operated the ceiling fan, and the window was open, and Craig could still hear what he could hear all the way up the hallway; Kyle Broflovski's voice, hushed but in no way quiet, lecturing somebody, or maybe just ranting.

   "Oh lay off, Craig." Bebe was bent over, rummaging in one of her bags. Already, her things were everywhere -- Craig had to step over a crumpled pair of leggings and a flat-iron to make it two steps into the room and dump his things on the desk. "I didn't see you pulling eighty four dollars out of your ass down there."

   Craig sat down heavily on his bed; the one closest to the window, yet unclaimed. It squeaked. "No, I meant Jackie. Jaclyn."

   "Who?" Bebe straightened up, hairbrush in hand. "Oh." She glanced back over her shoulder at him, unimpressed. "Nah. Clyde is cute."

   Craig started undoing his laces. He had already decided that he would sleep in his clothes, jeans and socks and all. "You're biased. He's not that cute."

   "He's okay." Bebe frowned before she bent over at the waist, shaking her hair upside-down, still speaking to him from underneath the curtain of curls as she brushed them out. "She probably gets lonely out here. And she also might be a prostitute."

   "You think so?" Craig kicked off his shoes. "I don't think he knows. We should tell him." Then he crawled into bed, sitting up against the headboard.

   He could hear footsteps just outside then, and they passed by; there was the sound of knocking, and muffled voices, almost too quiet to be audible at all, but he knew it was her, and he pulled his blanket up higher, until it was around his neck.

   "I think Clyde is cute enough that she's probably not a prostitute," said Bebe, with an air of finality. "He's probably the first guy our age to come in here in ages. I mean, look at this place."

   She righted herself and her hair sprang up with her, the effect not unlike a lion's mane, though Craig wouldn't say that to her face. She kicked off her jeans, and Craig averted his eyes to the peeling wallpaper, the little spots of water damage hiding in the corners.

   "Uh, I was there." Craig crossed his arms. "Kenny was there. Kyle is here. Can you not hear him?"

   Halfway through getting into bed, she stopped and listened, and she absolutely could hear him; he was still going on and probably everyone on the floor could hear him. "Huh. I don't know, then. Maybe she really did like his jacket."

   "Or maybe she really is a prostitute."

   "Fifty-fifty," Bebe shrugged. "Whatever. Goodnight, Craig."

   It didn't take long for Bebe to fall asleep. They had all been awake for too long, but that didn't seem to be stopping Clyde; Craig heard a headboard knock their shared wall and fought the urge to put his pillow over his head. He didn't trust the cleanliness of these pillows, and he didn't trust himself not to regret not listening. It was dark, he thought. No one would know.

   At a loss for what else to do, Craig reached for his phone on the nightstand. He opened the camera, switched it to video, and raised it above his head, tilted so as to capture only the inky blankness above him. On the screen there was no picture, but hopefully the microphone would pick up what he was hearing. The creaking mattress and the spell of whispering followed by a drawn-out, ecstatic, Clyde-sounding groan; the distant argument between Wendy and Kyle; and maybe some of Craig's breathing, too, just to prove that he was there.

   Maybe Clyde would thank him later, for making this memento of the first time Clyde has slept with anyone since high school. A nice souvenir gift for the road. Or maybe Craig would never tell anyone about this, and let this shameful moment of his life fade into oblivion and someday follow him to the grave.

   He kept listening. The groan must have been the end of Clyde, because the creaking stopped and there was only more whispering, then shuffling, then a sharp gasp followed by several helpless, seemingly involuntary moans. It was time to stop, Craig thought -- time to stop recording it, for one, and also time to press pillows against his ears and go to sleep. Clyde was doing something to her, and he didn't want to know what. Except that he did. He wanted to know exactly what was happening so that he could more acutely experience this quicksand feeling, the sinking lapse into the worst Clyde-related emotions he had ever had to endure, and he wanted to wallow in it.

   So Craig stayed perfectly still until he heard her come, too. It didn't even take long. It was possible that she was faking it, but also probable that she wasn't. He wasn't sure which option would make him feel better, if any. He'd imagined sex with Clyde so many times, but always pictured Clyde as awkward and fumbling as Craig would inevitably be, maybe even moreso just by virtue of being Clyde. The idea of Clyde being adequate, or more than, felt off. Like every piece of furniture in a room being moved an inch to the right.

   More whispers, more shuffling. Craig heard the door to Clyde's room open and close, and then footsteps passed by his door and faded down the hall. There was silence through the wall; and then, there wasn't silence.

   For a second, Craig thought Clyde must have been jerking off. But then he realised that he wasn't, because he vividly recognised what he was hearing, and he'd never heard Clyde jerk off before.

   Still, at first, Craig couldn't be completely sure. He wanted to press his ear to the wall, except Bebe might notice and judge him for doing it, but as it grew more intense it was unmistakable and he didn't have to. Clyde was crying. Sobbing, actually, and Craig hurriedly ended the recording and put his phone away.

   He didn't need a memento of this sound. It was raw and sad, the full-bodied crying that seemed to be the only kind Clyde had ever been capable of.

   It always started and ended suddenly, and Craig decided that he didn't want to wait around until it ended. He buried deep beneath the starchy hotel sheets, with his hands clamped over his ears, and fell asleep with the knowledge that at least tomorrow would not be today, and so things could only get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ten chapters is a guesstimate right now, but bimonthly updates are almost a certainty. i'm happy that this monster is finally seeing the light of day, and i sincerely hope that the 3 other cryde fans out there will enjoy it. :)


	2. vampires

 

 

   Craig could never really put to words why he felt the way he did about Clyde. It was something he'd puzzled over for hundreds of hours, over the years, staring up at the black of his bedroom ceiling in the middle of the night or straight ahead at the wiped-cleared chalkboard in detention during the day. It stumped him. Clyde wasn't special. Or maybe he was special if you liked being gifted shoes, or had a fetish for letter jackets, but neither of those applied to Craig and other than that, there wasn't much left to like.

   It made Craig obsess. Not with the feeling, but with all the reasons he shouldn't have it. Maybe if Clyde had looks like Bebe Stevens or Kenny McCormick, or the musical talents of Stan Marsh or Kenny McCormick, or even the lust for life of Butters Stotch or, well, Kenny McCormick -- maybe then it would make sense to cling to a pathetic middle school crush for a decade.

   But Clyde was nothing. He was a beached squid of a person. A South Park twenty-something, a songwriter who couldn't even pull together one album. Craig had heard that love made you blind but on the contrary, he had never been so aware of a person's flaws, and yet so aware that none of them put a dent in that overwhelming longing that had followed him around for all this time.

   Craig often wondered if this was because he was a beached squid too, and so they were as pathetic as each other, star-crossed and fated and meant to be.

   It was doubtful. Craig had gone through a painful phase where he'd allowed himself to believe that something could happen, but that had all boiled down to him being an idiotic teenager who was wilfully ignoring the fact that statistically, the rate of two gay kids per twenty in his elementary school class was exactly where it should be. He'd spent some time resenting Tweek for this, as though he'd been drawn in some sort of lottery and didn't deserve the winnings, but then Kyle Broflovski had come out in the eighth grade and turned that whole theory on its head. The anger had lasted for a while, and then fizzled into despair, before finally settling as a sort of muted acceptance. It had stopped being painful. Now it was just annoying. Craig didn't enjoy reminders that he could not control everything in his life; the crush hung around stubbornly, forcing him to face this truth every day.

   He woke, briefly, to the sound of hushed voices. Through squinted eyes, he could make out Bebe sitting up in her bed, and Clyde sitting on the end of it, freshly showered but dressed. Craig groaned at the sight, and they both heard him.

   "You're awake," Clyde said, as though Craig were coming to in a hospital and might need someone to explain to him where he was.

   Though Craig remembered the previous night, he didn't exactly feel oriented. Clyde was sitting there with one foot up on the opposite knee, looking extraordinarily comfortable, like he'd been born and raised in this very hotel, and Craig wasn't even sure what state they were in. Had they ended up in Kansas or Missouri? What was the difference?

   "Fuck," Craig said, before pulling the duvet over his head and rolling over to face the wall. 

   When he woke up the second time, he was alone and his phone said it was 10am. For a while, Craig lay there staring at the ceiling and considering a sort of reverse hibernation, the possibility of holing up here and shutting down for a full summer. In the end, he decided he was too thirsty for that. He remembered his two dollars, and sent Bebe a text asking her to bring him a bottle of water. She replied immediately, claiming that she was out. For breakfast, Craig assumed, so he got up and took a few gulps of water from the bathroom sink instead, doing his absolute best not to notice the dots of mold on the shower curtain.

   On his way back to bed, he stopped at the window and looked outside. The place wasn't as remote as it had looked last night; it wasn't on an actual street, but it had a huge parking lot with a few buildings on the other side, one of which looked like a Taco Bell. He wished he could've been there when Clyde noticed it. Then he realised how ridiculous that was, and crawled back under the sheets.

   Craig didn't usually like to stay in bed after he woke up. He was as lazy as they came, it was true, but he at least liked to take a shower and put some clothes on before long sessions of lounging in front of the television or clicking around on his computer. Today, he couldn't bring himself to care. The fact that he'd slept in his clothes last night somehow made him feel less dressed than he would if he were naked, and he wasn't yet ready to brave the shower. Even the thought of Moop's entire line-up barging in and seeing him like this wasn't enough motivation to get up, and that was saying something. He'd spent his whole life trying to convince people he didn't like that he was better than them in some way, and that meant doing his best to look the part at all times.

   He burrowed deeper under the blankets, hoping to fend off the melancholy by falling asleep again. Days like these reminded him of the worst months of his life. There had been a sudden-onset post high school crisis, where he'd trashed his acceptance letter from the fruity liberal arts college in Vermont that had opened its arms to him, and spent weeks at a time in the dark, curtains drawn, leaving the house only when coaxed. Usually by Clyde, or Token, when he was visiting. Those months were a drawn-out flatline of pointless video games and bad television and days on end with only his guinea pig for company.

   After finally finding a medication that worked, he had emerged blinking, two years older and ten pounds lighter, and fell right back into living. Now, everything felt stunningly neutral, except Clyde Donovan still did not love him back, and the musical stylings of Stan Marsh's band played over the speakers at his work almost every single day.

   That vague and grating song of theirs still crept onto the radio sometimes. 'Vague and grating' described all of their songs, really -- it was their genre. Now, Craig imagined Bebe and Clyde dining with those same grating people, shamelessly eating greasy hash browns and drinking coffees they wouldn't be paying for. He wasn't as hungry as he had been last night, and he didn't regret not going with them -- not that it mattered, since nobody had actually asked him to. Their bags of food from the van were still stacked up on the desk. Craig decided he'd fix himself something later, and rolled over again, examining the grain of the wallpaper.

   He was not anxious, though he felt like he should be. There were few occasions in life when Craig had woken up and wondered what would unfold in the next twenty four hours. They usually clustered around important events, and involved hospitals, for some reason. Like when his mother came home with Ruby, or the first time one of Tweek's numerous breakdowns landed him in the emergency room. They were days where everything was new, and he didn't know what to expect. They were days when he tackled great mountains of life experience, emerging calmer and wiser and more qualified to advise other people on what they should do in that situation if they encountered it. 

   He was coming to terms with the fact that this was one of those days.

   He knew, objectively, that he'd be getting drinks with Kenny and company later, but he couldn't decide how he felt about it. It reminded him, again, of Ruby when she was born -- when a shrieking little monster had appeared in Craig's life, in his very home, and everyone had assured him that he was supposed to adore her, but all he felt was a vague sort of apprehension.

 

-v-

 

   Stubbornly, Craig remained in bed until the sun began to set. He kept the remote on his bedside table, flipping intermittently between _Maury_  reruns and a number of home improvement shows where they transformed ugly interiors into beige ones. He might've dozed, though he wasn't sure. Regardless, he didn't hear any more arguments or sex through the walls, so when Bebe finally returned at six to get ready, Craig decided that it was safe for him to do the same.

   "Where were you all day?" Craig asked when she emerged from the bathroom in a towel, a cloud of steam billowing out behind her. Craig couldn't get dressed until he'd showered, too, so he'd spent the last twenty minutes laying out clothes on his bed. They were all a little bit crumpled from being crammed into his backpack, and it was becoming impossible to arrange something that would look effortless and put-together at the same time. He felt that the more he tried, the more this look escaped him.

   "Me and Clyde took a walk around town," Bebe said, crossing the room and rifling through her own clothes. She had a lot of them. Years ago, she'd taken up a sort of personal mission never to be seen in the same outfit twice, and Craig had questioned how this would work while they travelled. He shouldn't have. She'd brought more bags with her than himself and Clyde combined, all overflowing with tops and skirts and jeans and shoes.

   "I didn't know this place was a town." Craig had assumed it was just some sort of collection of buildings off a highway, a drop of civilization in the middle of farmland that stretched for miles in each direction.

   "Apparently it is. It has a high school and everything," Bebe said. "So we went exploring and then we sat in the Taco Bell for a while."

   "Just you two?" Craig asked. He thought of Jaclyn bouncing along, the three of them walking down the street with Clyde in the middle. The idea was nauseating.

   "I asked the guys if they wanted to come, but they said they were swamped."

   "Don't call them the guys." Craig looked up from where he'd been making his bed, unable to believe what he was hearing. This, from the Bebe who had unflinchingly participated in mocking every single thing Stan had said about his songwriting process in April's _Kerrang!_ issue? The Bebe who had almost giggled herself sick when a picture of some girl throwing her cocktail in Kenny McCormick's face hit social media last summer? " _We're_ the guys. They're pretentious life-ruining dicks."

   "Okay then," Bebe said. "The pretentious life-ruining dicks have been making phone calls in their rooms all day. I saw Kyle pacing in the hallway earlier, but that was all."

   "What about Wendy?"

   That caught her attention. Bebe didn't keep in touch with any of her old cheerleading friends, but Wendy Testaburger was the sole exception, their closeness unaffected by the Great Schism of Senior Year. "You saw Wendy?"

   "No, but I thought she was here." Craig reconsidered; maybe Cartman had been on the phone, or maybe he was speaking to a different person altogether. "I guess it could've been some other Wendy."

   "Really? You know, it's been forever since I've seen her. She always asks about you, though."

   "About me?"

   "Yeah, she always wants to know how you are, what you're up to."

   "Why?" Craig asked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a meaningful conversation with Wendy Testaburger. 

   "I don't know. She just does."

   "I bet she doesn't even remember my last name."

   "Oh, please, this is Wendy we're talking about. She remembers everything about everyone."

   Craig went for his shower, and found that it wasn't actually that bad. He'd been expecting a lot of grime and maybe an ant problem, but the worst he found was the already-appraised shower curtain and a smudge on the mirror that was in the shape of a child's hand. He brushed his teeth afterwards, and his stomach growled. He'd skipped breakfast and lunch, and he briefly wondered who'd be buying his dinner tonight.

   When he returned, Bebe had moved most of the clothes from his bed, leaving one fully-formed outfit laid out. She was sitting at the desk, doing her make-up, and smirking in a pleased-with-herself way. Craig examined what she'd chosen; a navy blue button down, black jeans, and his favourite hat.

   "No way am I wearing a button-down shirt," he said. "They don't deserve the effort it takes to do up all the buttons."

   He wouldn't wear the hat, either. He didn't want to sweat.

   Bebe gave him a startled look over her shoulder. "What is the matter with you?"

   "Me? Nothing." Craig crossed his arms. "It's just that they're insufferable and now we owe them hundreds of dollars."

   "That's stupid. You've never cared about owing people money before." Craig tensed, because she was right. "And you haven't even spoken to them yet. I bet they're excited to see you."

   "Who told you that?"

   "It's just what I think, Craig. Because we all used to be friends, and now you're acting like they're conspiring to kill your hopes and dreams. For just one night, can you try to have fun?" 

   "You're only saying that because they're famous," Craig told her, without venom, and he wore a plain black t-shirt with his black jeans, in the hopes that it might function as a sort of camouflage.

 

-v-

 

   They met Clyde down in the lobby, where he was lingering by the elevator. Craig was relieved to find Jackie nowhere in sight; the lady at the front desk was older, about the same age as his mom, and he gave her a smile as they walked by, to show his gratitude for who she was not. Clyde was wearing his jacket again, with a blue flannel shirt underneath. Bebe looked twice at this combination, but didn't say anything.

   "You slept a lot last night," Clyde said, to Craig, nudging him once they were out in the parking lot. The sun had barely started to set, and the sky above was cloudless, stretching on forever. This would have been late-August weather in South Park, and it felt like waking up in another world. There had still been snow on the ground when they left town yesterday.

   "You didn't," Craig said, nudging him back. When they were kids, they used to exchange covert thumbs-ups whenever one of them was successful with a girl, and he felt the absurd urge to do so again, just to prove how okay he was with the whole situation. "How was she?"

   "Good," Clyde said, a little distractedly. "Yeah. She was good. Did you guys think she was hot?"

   "She wasn't my type," Bebe said. Craig hummed in agreement. He wasn't sure why it mattered what they thought, but apparently it did.

   "Stupid question," Clyde conceded. "I guess you wouldn't know."

   "I mean, we have eyes," Bebe said.

   "Oh? And what did your eyes think?"

   "She was smoking hot," Craig said, in order to end the conversation. It worked; Clyde smiled to himself and was quiet for the rest of the walk. He had a spring in his step, Craig thought, even after all the crying.

   Bebe led the way with Google Maps. A winding path half-hidden behind the Taco Bell took them through a patch of grassy overgrowth and into the town itself. It was almost eerily quiet for a Saturday evening. A few teenagers loitered by an ancient-looking movie theatre, and two pensioners were chatting outside the pharmacy. Their destination was a little bar that looked not unlike Skeeter's, in that it was a long, low building, though it was more rustic, in that it boasted an awning and a sign that said ' _Austin's_ '. The sign also declared it to be a 'bar and grill', which Craig approved of. He was in the mood to eat something grilled.

   They were the first ones there, and the place was quiet. They picked a booth that would easily seat eight, and Craig was relieved when Clyde slid in next to him, effectively shielding him from having to share his personal bubble with anyone else. He'd been concerned about being sandwiched between Stan and Kyle, boxed in while they leaned around him to talk to each other, a claustrophobic nightmare that would surely haunt him for the rest of his life.

   "We should order food," Craig said when they were situated.

   "I only have eight dollars left," Bebe told him.

   "Whatever," Craig said, and when the waitress came around, he ordered two portions of fries with cheese and bacon, and a Dr. Pepper, which they did not have. He settled for a Diet Coke instead, and Bebe and Clyde ordered beers.

   Clyde was quickly distracted by the football game on the TV, Bebe by her phone, and Craig by the sense of dread that was beginning to overwhelm him. Now that he was here, he was starting to wonder why he had come. Would anyone have actually missed him, if he'd just stayed in bed and watched _Will and Grace_  reruns, eating saltines and drinking tapwater? Would Kyle give him that condescending smile and claim to be glad to see him out and about again?

   "I'm not looking forward to this this," Craig said aloud, though he wasn't exactly expecting moral support.

   "You should give them a chance," Clyde said, without looking away from the TV. "They're paying for your fries."

   Stan and Kyle arrived first, at the same time as Craig's food, so he ignored them in favour of securing one of the plates as his own, feeling like some kind of hoarding goblin as he leaned around Clyde in his effort to pull the bowl down to his end of the table. Cartman and Kenny came in just behind, but lingered by the door, in the midst of a whispered conversation that seemed heated. Bebe was giving out hugs and Clyde stood up to shake their hands; Craig stayed seated and ate three fries slowly, needing the energy. He looked them all over, distastefully.

   Kenny had on the exact same thing he'd been wearing the night before. Kyle had acquired glasses that aged him, but in a way that counteracted the fact that he'd always looked a year or two younger than he actually was while they were teenagers. Cartman was wearing a leather jacket, and Stan had a stubble-y sort of beard thing going on, seemingly on purpose. The combination of this and the beanie he was wearing made him look older, as well, but also homeless. Craig supposed that maybe he was -- he hadn't heard anything about Stan buying a mega-mansion yet. Maybe when they weren't touring he lived out in the forests of Colorado, in a tent, eating tinned beans and wild berries, hugging trees.

   As individuals, they looked like people. As a set, they looked like they'd wandered the wrong way off Sunset Boulevard. The bartender was staring at Cartman as if he thought he recognised him, but wasn't sure. Craig felt the same way about all of them. They were like ghosts of people he used to know, and he wondered if there was a word for the opposite of starstruck.

   "Hello," he eventually said, warily, when Stan and Kyle had sat down. Bebe had made some excuse about having a weak bladder and wanting to sit at the end, so Craig now found himself face-to-face with Kyle Broflovski. There was a tiny outbreak of zits on his forehead, up near his hairline. Craig stared, transfixed. Kyle's irritatingly clear skin during high school had been the absolute bane of his existence, though he had never admitted this to anyone, and just quietly appreciated the rest of his friends for having the common decency to have at least a little bit of acne at one point or another during their development.

   Kyle didn't seem to notice. He was staring at Craig's bowl of fries like it was a personal attack. His eyes were narrowed, arms crossed and resting on the table.

   "Ugh," Kyle said. "Are those cheese and bacon fries?"

   "Uh, yes," Craig said, thinking this was obvious.

   "Did you guys want some?" Clyde asked. He had the good sense to offer up the other bowl, the one Craig hadn't claimed. "You can pick off the bacon."

   "I'm on a diet," Kyle said, grimly. "And Stan doesn't eat meat or dairy. So we'll have, uh, water."

   "You're on a diet?" Craig asked, looking Kyle over for some sign of weight gain, which he was unfortunately not able to find. He noticed Bebe doing the same. Clyde, for his part, was clutching his beer almost protectively, as if Kyle might decide to slap it out of his hand, demanding a show of solidarity.

   "Our manager says I have a stress eating problem and our fans are starting to notice." He still hadn't taken his eyes off of Craig's food. "I haven't eaten cheese in a month."

   "That sounds terrible," Clyde said, his voice wavering.

   Craig decided to eat another fry, and he pretended to read the menu on the far wall while Stan asked Bebe how school was going. She'd been studying music at the community college, and was only a few credits away from her degree. She was teaching piano to kids part-time, which gave her plenty of stories to regale Stan and Kyle with while they waited for the others to show up; the waitress returned and they requested their water, as well as a beer for Cartman and a Cosmopolitan for Kenny.

   "My dad taught me how to play the guitar when I was a kid," Stan was telling Bebe. "I just feel like I owe so much to him, you know? It totally changed my life. You're changing kids' lives."

   "Aw, Bebe!" Kenny said, appearing and sliding in beside her. Weak bladder apparently forgotten, she allowed it, beaming. "You are?"

   Bebe looked completely in her element, shrugging off compliments with a rock star on either side of her, though Stan was checking his phone, and Kenny was still flushed from whatever he'd been arguing about. Craig decided to do her a favour and fished his phone from his pocket, snapping a candid picture. He was so absorbed in this task that he didn't really notice when Clyde shifted closer to him, so close their arms pressed together. Cartman had decided to sit in their side of the booth.

   "Well, well, well," he said, dominating the conversation as soon as he was a part of it, as usual. He leaned on the table, and it creaked. "If it isn't Clyde! Kenny told us how he found you on the side of the road, Clyde. Semen all down your shirt, fifty bucks in your back pocket, he said." He clapped Clyde on the shoulder. "Don't worry, man. There's no shame in doing what you have to do."

   Silence rung out like a shot had been fired. The waitress who had been approaching with their drinks stopped in her tracks, turned around, and walked back to the bar. Kenny put his head down on the table. Kyle took a handful of fries.

   The mental image was vaguely hot, though Craig hated himself for thinking it. Especially since Clyde had turned to him, hopelessly confused, his lips parted, and Craig knew that look. Clyde did not do comebacks. He was silently begging for someone to tell him what to say.

   Craig sighed. People mixed them up all the time, and always had since they were little kids, attached at the hip. But the fact that it was Craig who had come out in the fourth grade was the one thing everybody seemed to be able to keep straight. Including and especially Eric Cartman, who apparently kept his grievances with everyone on file, and never hesitated to bring up ancient social turbulence to prove a point.

   "Clyde?" Craig asked, craning his neck to glare at Cartman. "Don't you mean me?"

   "Do I?" Cartman gave him a sickly grin. "Why, my mistake, Craig."

   "Oh my god, fatass." Kyle was snarling, keeping his voice low. "I bet you were planning that the whole way here."

   "You said you wouldn't be a dick," Stan said, sounding like a mildly disappointed spouse.

   "He's always a dick!"

   "Excuse me?" Cartman raised his eyebrows. "You really want to bring up dicks, Kyle? Is that where you want this discussion to be going?"

   Kyle deflated, and Stan tensed. Craig watched with mild interest, glad to have the attention taken off of him, though he expected nothing less from this group of people. Their presence was like a soap opera with a never ending script. He made a mental note to relay this thought to Clyde later, in between criticising Stan's facial hair and Kyle's lack of commitment to his so-called diet.

   "What does that mean?" Clyde asked, looking from Cartman to Kyle a few times before addressing Craig, his voice hard, meaning business. "Was that homophobic?"

   Clyde had been crusading against any perceived homophobia in his presence for the last decade. Craig found it equal parts annoying and endearing, but because it was Clyde, the 'endearing' element won out in the end.

   "I think it was," Bebe piped up. Her hand was in the bowl of fries at her end of the table, grasping for the last few; they were almost gone.

   "Maybe we shouldn't be yelling about dicks in this bar," Craig said, because he couldn't tell, and didn't really want to know. Kyle's cheeks had gone pink and his eyes downcast, but all he did was take a drink of his water. "We're getting looks."

   "Alright, alright." Cartman rolled his eyes. "I was just teasing! We haven't seen these guys in like five years, God, let me at least rip on them a _little_."

   "Well that's not true. You came into the store six months ago," Clyde said. Craig remembered; he'd been in the stock room at the time, but Clyde had relayed the story to him of how Eric Cartman appeared in the middle of the afternoon and tried to pay for a pair of patent heels with an autograph. It had been over the Christmas period, when they were busy, and Cartman had ended up throwing the shoes down on the floor and storming out, leaving a crowd of confused shoppers in his wake. The incident had made the front page of the local newspaper.

   "Okay, but that wasn't like a _reunion_ ," Cartman said, huffing. "This is just like old times, right? Doesn't this feel just like school?" He stretched his meaty arms out, laying them over the back of the booth. Clyde shifted closer to Craig, looking perturbed. "God, when's the last time we hung out with anybody from South Park?"

   Craig had already drained his Diet Coke. Stan engineered a tactical subject change to the upcoming NFL season, which had everyone animated except Craig and Kyle, who were left to sit there in silence. Fucking stereotypes that they were, Craig thought. He didn't even feel confident holding a conversation about basketball anymore; he'd lost interest now that Token wasn't around, though he wondered briefly if Kyle had switched his allegiance from the Nuggets to the Knicks, since he was apparently no longer 'from South Park'.

   Kyle bested his attempts not to make eye contact. The look he gave Craig communicated mutual suffering, which was a surprise. Here Kyle was, sitting here with his band, a double-platinum album under his belt and another just released, and he wanted to complain. Craig could tell.

   "So," Craig said, to break the ice. "I'm thinking of taking up drinking again."

   "So am I," Kyle said, drily. "Why'd you stop? You're not dieting."

   At the mention of dieting, he self-consciously pushed the bowl of fries closer to Craig. There was a small pile of discarded bacon bits, off to one side.

   "Health reasons," Craig said, though this was really just an excuse. He'd seen Clyde blackout drunk and vomiting more times that he could count, usually weepy and demanding that Craig stay with him, lest he pass out in the toilet and drown. Then he remembered that Stan was also like this, though more aggressive, and more prone to actually passing out. To communicate this, he subtly pointed in Clyde's direction. Kyle grimaced, and seemed to understand.

   Craig chewed on his straw. The conversation they were sitting out had transitioned seamlessly from NFL, to Kenny's amusement that his new local team were named after dolphins, to Florida in general, which Bebe for some reason had a lot of questions about.

   "Yeah, we just spent the week in Miami," Stan was saying, and Kenny grinned like he had just been complimented. "It's beautiful down there this time of year, and we needed the vacation. We were just in East Asia and god, the flights..."

   "The flights," Bebe agreed, because she had the kind of parents who took her to far away places sometimes, and didn't share Craig inbuilt reflex to roll his eyes in response to everything that Stan Marsh said about his life. "So where are you headed now?"

   "South Park, Colorado," Stan said. "Where else?"

   "You too, Kenny?" Clyde asked.

   "I mean," Kenny said, "I'd rather not, but I'm looking into property there."

   "Oh." Clyde nodded. "Really." His tone made Craig smirk and feel just a little better. Clyde had also started on the remainder of the fries, scooping up the leftover bacon and stringy pieces of cheese. Craig realised he'd only eaten a few, too distracted by his anxious straw-chewing habit, and now there were almost none left.

   "Yes," Cartman said, tiredly. "We will once again walk among the hillbillies. We sold out the Pepsi Center, but these things come at a price."

   "The price is Kyle wants to stay a week with his family," Stan explained, glancing up from his phone.

   "What about you guys, where are you headed?" Kyle asked, a little sharply. He was picking at Craig's food again, but when the waitress decided to brave their table, he only ordered more water. Kenny ordered three more Cosmopolitans. Craig ordered another Diet Coke and a cheeseburger, ignoring the look Kyle gave him.

   "We were supposed to be going to Yale, for Token's graduation," Craig said when she was gone, though he was sure Kenny would've already told the story. "This was kind of a detour, and then some shit happened and we ended up getting dumped on the side of the road out there by our replacement bassist who was, by the way, a total dick."

   It sounded worse out loud. Apparently, it always would.

   "Jesus," Stan said, shaking his head in a pitying way, like he was being confronted with baby roadkill rather than three adult humans who were doing okay, considering the circumstances.

    _Tired_. Tired was definitely the opposite of starstruck. Craig knew this because being starstruck lit up your veins like a current, sparking like faulty wiring, and it made your heart beat double-quick, and your breaths short, and whenever Craig looked at Stan Marsh, _really_  looked at him, it instead gave him the overwhelming feeling that he would rather be literally anywhere else or dead in that moment.

   "So we don't know yet," Clyde said. "We'll figure it out when Token gets here. We're getting the band back together," he added, addressing this to Stan in particular, in a way that Craig would have interpreted as pointed, if it had been anyone else saying it. "We're working on an album."

   They talked about albums until Craig's cheeseburger arrived. Clyde had a way of making their plight sound like something adventurous; though Craig was sure they'd end up simply following Moop back to town, he liked the idea that they might not, that they could go anywhere. Token had promised them a van, and promised that he'd gotten a license to drive it. There was nothing really stopping them from turning around and taking the highway back through Colorado, through plain and desert, to the West coast, where lightning might strike twice.

  
-v-

  
   They stayed in Austin's until well after sunset. It grew more crowded and humid, and more fries were ordered, until Cartman threw down his credit card at around 10pm, burped, and declared that he had a bitch to track down.

   "Don't call her a bitch," Stan said, though half-heartedly.

   "She is a bitch," Cartman replied, squeezing himself out of the booth, and Stan had dropped it there, draining the last of his sad glass of water.

   Craig was somewhat relieved not to be the only person still stone-cold sober, and he found himself walking alongside Stan and Kyle on the way back to the hotel, paces ahead of the others It was mostly to get away from Cartman, who was telling Clyde in detail about his experience at last year's Grammy's, and Kenny, who'd switched from Cosmos to Tequila at some point and was laughing giddily at everything that anyone said.

   "How's New York?" Craig asked Kyle, trying to be polite, though he was already daydreaming about complaining about this very conversation later. He'd tear into Kyle for being either wildly ungrateful for his fancy loft, or bragging about it insufferably, depending on his response.

   "Don't talk to me about New York," Kyle said, and Stan laughed at the expression Craig made in response.

   They parted ways at their rooms. Clyde followed Craig and Bebe into theirs, turned the desk chair around, and sat down in it like he owned the place. Craig felt nauseous, to be reacquainted with the stale smell of the room, and he opened the window. Stan and Kyle had stayed outside, and he could see them, leaning against the side of their van and in the middle of an discussion. For a moment, Craig thought they were smoking, but then he realised they were eating carrot sticks out of a bag in Stan's hand.

   "Well," Bebe said, sitting down heavily on her mattress and opening her laptop. Her phone had died at some point during the evening, preventing her from checking social media, which Craig knew tended to make her antsy. "That wasn't so bad!"

   "For you," Craig said, though he had to admit that it didn't feel like four hours, and the food had been better than anything he'd eaten in a while.

   "I slipped them a copy of our demo," Clyde said, not even trying to be nonchalant about it.

   Craig's cringe must have been visible, but nobody seemed to notice; Bebe was writing something and Clyde was leaning back in his chair, oozing smugness. He was only a little bit tipsy. Nowhere near enough to account for such a lapse in judgement, though Craig had long since given up on being surprised when Clyde did things that seemed ridiculous to him.

   "What?" Bebe laughed, without pausing her typing. "When?"

   "Just now." Clyde said, clearly thinking that this was a genius move. "I had the CD in my pocket."

   "Why did you?" Craig asked, because that seemed like a more pressing question.

   "Because they're famous, man." Clyde sat up straighter. "You're always talking about how they only got their record deal because they knew the right people. Maybe they want to do that for someone else."

   "Great." Craig collapsed back on his bed. The sound it made under the impact was horrible, sort of crunchy, and he regretted it immediately. "And it had to be them. We couldn't have run into, like, Cher or something."

   Clyde laughed. "Cher?"

   "Oh my god!" Bebe said, clapping her hands together. "Moop just followed us on Twitter."

   Clyde high fived her, and Craig sighed and reached for the remote.

  
-v-

  
   The following morning wasn't so dire. Craig woke first and took a long shower, wishing he could blast his music here like he did at home. He figured he would spend his two dollars on breakfast, if he could manage it. There was a 7-Eleven close by, so maybe he could swing a Nutrigrain bar or two. He dressed quickly, stole some of Bebe's sunblock, towelled off his hair, and headed out with the room key in one pocket and his phone in the other.

   He locked the door behind him, turned around, and found himself face-to-face with Eric Cartman, loitering in the hallway. Waiting for him.

   "Craig," he said, briskly, in greeting. "Walk with me."

   Cartman looked like he hadn't slept, and though he had changed his clothes, the leather jacket remained. He was wearing a tie today, for some reason, and he smelled faintly of coffee. He had sunglasses on his head; jet-black Aviators.

   Craig shoved his hands in his pockets and decided he had nothing better to do. They were in the elevator before it occurred to him to ask, "Why me?"

   "You're Craig, yes?" Cartman was looking him over with a critical eye. "Of Craig and Those Guys?"

   "You know I am."

   "I have a business proposal for Craig and Those Guys. And you," he said, "are Craig. So. Walk with me."

   He gestured to the front door, and they walked outside and across the parking lot, taking their time. The air felt different here, Craig thought. Stiller, and more welcoming. It parted for him as he went, his footsteps silent on the asphalt, the weather a perfect cliche of spring that he'd never see at home.

   "Well, Craig," Cartman said, lowering his sunglasses. "It seems we have a situation."

   "What kind of situation?" Craig asked, warily. He was sure Moop had a lot of situations to deal with, but not why any of them might involve him.

   "It's a long story. The condensed version is that a dumb bitch got hired, some things happened, our opening act bailed, and the first tour date is next week. At the Pepsi Center. Sold out," Cartman said, as though Craig might have forgotten this.

   "That sucks for you," Craig said.

   "Yeah, a word from the wise? Don't hire somebody's girlfriend. For like, anything." Cartman snorted a laugh. "She was so invested in fucking Stan it spilled over and she fucked us all."

   "Oh, Wendy?" Craig said. Though he was in no way invested in Stan's love life, he had never mentioned a girlfriend in interviews. "I thought they broke up."

   "Stan and Wendy don't know how to break up," Cartman said. "But that's beside the point. We have an opening, Craig. A very lucrative one. And, well, it's between you and the piano guy." Cartman rolled his eyes in a way that told Craig that he wasn't remotely impressed with the piano guy, whoever that was.

   "You're not serious." Craig stopped walking. "You want _us_  to open for you?"

   "Yes, Craig." Cartman put a hand over his heart. "Swear to God, I'm just as surprised as you are, but we do. Kenny says it's fate that he found you washed-up losers at a truck stop, because he believes in all that shit, but _I_  think you guys can use all the help you can get and that's all there is to it."

   "Hey," Craig said, frowning.

   "The trick," Cartman continued, "is picking a band kind of like yours but way, _way_  worse. Turns out, we don't have to look very far for that, thereby doubling the audience's hype for _us_ ," and yet he gestured to himself, "while _you_  assholes get an all-expenses paid trip around the United States courtesy of our label, and the publicity you so desperately require." He held out one hand, to be shaken. "Do we have a deal?"

   "No," Craig said. "We don't have a deal."

   "Craig." Cartman gave him a dangerous look, but he didn't flinch.

   "We don't make any deals until the whole band agrees to something," Craig said, simply. He glanced back towards the hotel. "You have a week until the tour starts, right?"

   "Eight days. Will you be ready in eight days?"

   "Sure we will." Craig smirked. "If we decide it's worth our time."

   Cartman sighed and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, " _breaking my balls, Craig_ ".  
  
   Craig's stomach rumbled. Now that he thought about it, he was pretty sure two dollars was only enough to buy one Nutrigrain, which gave him an idea.

   "And we want a hundred bucks up front," he said, when Cartman turned and started walking away. "As a booking fee."

   "A booking fee?!" Cartman spun, immediately outraged. "Fuck you, Craig! You don't even know what a booking fee is!"

   "A hundred bucks or it's the piano guy," Craig told him, crossing his arms. "That's what a booking fee is."

   Cartman made a disgusted noise, and reached for his wallet. He had a hundred dollar bill, which made Craig detest him even more, though he didn't voice this, and he didn't say thank you.

  
-v-

  
   Craig took his time going back to the hotel. After spending the previous morning in bed, he wanted to make the most of this one, so he pocketed his money and followed the footpath into town, and then took off in a random direction. He was dead-set on taking the longest possible route to the convenience store, which according to Google Maps was a few blocks away from Austin's, close to the school district.

   On the way, he called Token, to preemptively congratulate him on his graduation. Craig had actually been looking forward to the ceremony, though he couldn't say why. Being surrounded by Yale graduates should have been Craig's worst nightmare, after what had happened to his own vague dreams of higher education, but Token didn't seem to have undergone any great changes due to the exposure to the Ivy League. His reaction to Craig sharing who they'd run into was a healthy mix of horror and amusement.

   "And they're _still_  there?" Token asked. His voice was fluctuating in volume in a way that sounded unnatural. Craig assumed he was getting ready. "At that hotel? Why?"

   "I have no idea," Craig told him. He'd entertained the notion that they were just hanging around to get on his nerves, but that would be extreme, even for them. "I think Wendy might be, like, missing. Cartman said he was looking for her."

   "Damn," Token said. "Maybe he killed her."

   Craig said goodbye to Token when he found himself nearing the 7-Eleven. They had individually wrapped cinnamon rolls, which he bought six of, as well as two chocolate milks and a grape soda. The walk back felt like it took much longer, and he stopped to rest on a bench for a while, snapping pictures of some little birds that were pecking at the ground, and one of a Great Dane being walked across the street. It was nice, to be able to sit down outside without huddling in his coat and having to breathe on his hands to keep them warm. It felt like it had been a hundred years since last summer, when the snow had melted on the first day of the kids' summer vacation, as it always did. He was glad for the sunblock. As the morning drifted on, the temperature rose, and the sun beat down without mercy.

   When he returned to the hotel, he noticed that the side door of Moop's van was open, but he ignored it and went up to Clyde's room. He knocked on the door and wondered if he would ever get used to the smell of the place; like mildew and dust and lavender, just recently hosed down with air freshener. It occurred to him, too late, that Jaclyn might be inside, but Clyde held the door open for him to come in without comment, his body covered only by a fairly thin t-shirt held over his crotch. He slept in the nude, a trait that Craig both loved and hated about him, and he tended to answer the door in a state of undress regardless of whether or not he was expecting anyone, which Craig considered to be a mild form of torture.

   Craig politely averted his eyes while Clyde got back into bed, and then seated himself on the other one. When they were little, Clyde was always the kid who stripped down to his underwear at any opportunity, and he'd never really grown out of that. Even the colostomy only put a small and temporary dent in his confidence. It had left Craig in a strange limbo, where he had gotten so used to Clyde's body that simply seeing it wasn't exciting, but he still found himself cataloguing little things about it, saving the memories for the next time he was alone and his mind wandered. It was how married people must feel, he thought. Finding each other conditionally erotic.

   "So, what's up?" Clyde asked, and then yawned. He was propped up against his pillows, blankets pooling at his middle, and the position was unflattering but not unappealing. Clyde's stomach had always been an area of particular interest for Craig. His level of fitness had declined since he played four different sports at a county level, his still-not-completely-insignificant musculature now coming exclusively from the crappy gym over by Sooper Foods, but he had always possessed a layer of pudge, like some kind of arctic seal. He was barely 'slim', and he would never be skinny. Craig found that fascinating.

   Making purposeful eye contact and deciding to firmly wipe all thoughts of marriage or eroticism from his mind, Craig threw two of the cinnamon rolls and one of the chocolate milks onto Clyde's mattress. "Nothing," he said. "I made a hundred dollars."

   "Oh, God, from what?"  
  
   "Eric said he wants us to tour with them." Clyde gave him a bleary look, waiting for the punchline. "Dude, I know. I thought he was screwing with us at first, too, but he gave me money. They seem really desperate. But I think they liked the demo," Craig added, too late to spare Clyde's feelings, because he was frowning. "I told them I'd ask you guys and Token before we committed to anything."

   "You're kidding, right?" The concern on Clyde's face slipped into shock and wonder, and something in the vein of happiness, but not quite. "We have to go." The smile spread across his face slowly, and Craig's stomach knotted with it. "Holy shit," he said. "This is it, man. This is really it."

   "Yeah," Craig said, crinkling the wrapper of his cinnamon roll without opening it. "I guess it is."

  
-v-

 

   As the weekend wore on, Craig found himself drifting through the halls of the hotel like a displaced spirit. There was very little to see in this particular town, and when he went out, people's eyes lingered on him, as though he held some beacon that declared him a visitor, or a stranger. He felt an urge to be alone, but a restlessness when he was. It left him with few options.

   Exploring the hotel was the most favourable one. He didn't see any other guests, but he found one wall with a first-shaped dent that had destroyed the plaster and left the wallpaper around it ragged, and a room on the ground floor that was ostensibly some kind of lounge area but boasted nothing but a few worn couches and a wall-mounted television that was permanently muted and tuned to a local news station.

   He discovered that the older woman working the front desk was named Anita, and that she was there all the time during the day, playing solitaire and eating hard candies from a massive bag beneath her desk.

   "What do you think of Jaclyn?" Craig asked her during one of his laps, taking a moment to lean on the desk and stare at the screen of his phone, which was not charged, but there were few things he disliked more than giving his full attention to someone who wasn't giving theirs.

   "She's okay," Anita said.

   "No, you can tell me," Craig said.

   "She's my daughter," Anita said, glancing at him from over the top of her computer screen.

   "Oh," Craig said. "I see the resemblance," he added, because he might, if Anita wore less fake tan, and if Jaclyn didn't dye her hair.

   In the lounge, he lay flat on a dusty sofa and stared at the television. So far, he had failed to have any entertaining conversations with his friends about Moop. The fact that Kenny had returned to his smoking habit was not funny. The idea of Kyle being on a diet while forced to share space with Cartman, who was easily three or four times his size and did not know the meaning of the word, was also not funny. Stan's apparent descent into veganism was sort of funny, but Craig hadn't been able to think up anything scathing to say about it yet.

   He'd been too preoccupied with thinking about Cartman's offer. At first, he'd convinced himself that it was some kind of a trick, or a joke, though a bad one, since it involved giving Craig a hundred dollars, some of which he had already spent. Then he'd drifted into Kyle's room against his better judgement and found him sitting at his desk. He had a knife in his hand, which was alarming, until Craig had realised that he had a mangled bar of soap in the other and he was cutting it over a paper towel, making quick little strokes, completely oblivious to Craig's presence and possibly not realising his door had been lying wide open at all.

   "You've been busy," Craig had said.

   "Yeah. It's called having a hobby."

   Absent-minded sass. Craig knew it well, and he decided to let it go, lingering in the doorway, unwilling to set foot in the room. Both beds were made, and it was almost unnervingly tidy. Craig feared that his presence might constitute a mess.

   "Did you listen to our demo tape?"

   "Uh-huh." The bar of soap had taken on the shape of a fish. Craig watched, hypnotised, as Kyle shaped the last of the tail, and then carefully began to carve scales with the tip of the knife. "Didn't Cartman talk to you yet?"

   "He did. I thought it was a hallucination, but then I realised I still had the money."

   "Well, I can't think of anyone I'd rather go on tour with. You guys are really good."

   Craig was sure this was a bold-faced lie, and had decided to leave rather than return the sentiment.

   Token called back to say that he'd be delayed, probably until early Tuesday, and Craig made sure to relay this news to Kenny, who was paying for their rooms and needed to know. He found him by their van late Monday afternoon, smoking on the retractable metal steps that led up to the side door, his hoodie tied around his waist and his hair erratic at the front, as though he'd been pushing it back with his hand so much that it had stayed in position, pieces of it sticking upright.

   "Don't tell Kyle," he said, when Craig declined a cigarette and made himself comfortable leaning against the side of the tour bus. He wasn't sure why he was hanging around to chat, but it was a nice day and he'd been out-of-his-mind bored with Clyde holed up in his room songwriting and Bebe on the phone with various people, discussing the logistics of getting t-shirts made and shipped within the next seven days. She'd taken the news with some trepidation, which made her smarter than Clyde, in Craig's eyes. She had agreed to wait until Token's arrival to make any concrete decisions, but said that she still needed to prepare, and instructed Craig to stay well out of her way while she did.

   "What does Kyle care if you smoke?"

   "Trust me, he does." Kenny rolled his eyes, flicking ash onto the asphalt. "Well, only if it's like, in public. I need to get nicotine gum for the tour."

   "We're hardly in public," Craig said, looking around the deserted parking lot.

   "It's public enough."

   "Why is he like that?" Craig said, though he didn't expect an answer. Some people had probably been spending their entire lives trying to figure out why Kyle Broflovski was _like that_  -- he'd always been kind of a force of nature, a term which Craig would not consider complimentary. "He's not your publicist."

   "It's not about publicity. You know how he's always had a stick up his ass about smoking. We're all under a lot of stress right now. Some handle it better than others."

   "I heard Cartman murdered Wendy," Craig said. He hadn't seen either of them around in a while and the idea had been playing on his mind.

   "He didn't." Craig had mostly meant it as a joke, but Kenny didn't laugh. "Butters finally found her. She got to Wichita somehow. I don't know what the hell she was thinking."

   "Butters is here?"

   "He was. Now he's in Wichita." He sounded so exhausted, as though he himself had trekked to Wichita and back, with no sleep and no water. "Wendy doesn't want to speak to anyone else but him. It probably sounds weird, but..." Kenny shook his head. "Things were fucking crazy that night, dude. We only ended up here because Butters said he couldn't drive anymore with all the yelling."

   "What were you arguing about?" Craig asked, examining his fingernails. There seemed to constantly be dirt under them, lately. He figured it was something to do with Kansas.

   "Can't say. We're all sworn to secrecy."

   "Cartman already told me about the issue with the opening act. He, uh, hired us."

   "Oh, I know. That's not what I'm talking about." Kenny rested his head against the doorframe and closed his eyes. "That was just a bonus. The cherry on top of the shit cake, you know?"

   Craig mulled that over while he spent the afternoon lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, earphones in, listening to _Moop's_  albums, which had generously been uploaded to Youtube in their entirety by somebody, and not yet taken down for copyright violations. Their music was not to his taste, though Bebe and Clyde were right -- it wasn't technically bad. Both albums were polished, obviously professionally produced, and Craig could imagine them in a real studio, a whole team of staff behind the window tweaking everything until it was refined into the form that Craig was hearing now. Their lyrics were overly deep and cryptic, he thought, and their songs had a Southern twang that seemed disingenuous, considering they weren't from the south. Craig always thought Kyle Broflovski was kind of a terrible bass player, too uptight and arrhythmic, and playing the instrument seemed to stress him out more than it allowed him to express himself. He sounded okay on the albums, but Craig doubted his capabilities live. He was no Token. He wasn't even a Thad.

   This thought led him to his next concern: for the last several days he'd thought about nothing but Stan and Kyle and Cartman and Kenny, which was taking a serious toll on his health. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, why Kyle couldn't just have gone to law school, and Stan couldn't just have gone to Brazil to save the rainforest, and Kenny couldn't have become a meth dealer in a part of Park County that Craig never frequented. He swore he'd made a pact with the devil in his sleep, that Moop could be so far away and yet so constant in his life. That they could leave town only to pounce when he least expected them, in Kansas of all places.

   The more time he spent with them, the more Token in his tour bus felt like a gallant knight on a noble steed, coming to rescue him. Which was ridiculous, because unless the piano guy Cartman had mentioned suddenly improved, it would be a long, long time before Craig got away from Moop and their pretension, and their mediocrity, and their mind-numbingly unfair success.

  
-v-

  
   On Monday night, he couldn't sleep. Neither could Bebe. They lay awake together in the dark, the ceiling fan whirring, the neighbouring rooms mercifully silent. They'd been talking for hours about nothing, and the conversation had somehow been reduced to this:

   "Alright," Bebe said. "Fuck, marry, kill: Stan, Kyle, and Cartman."

   "What, no Kenny?" Craig propped himself up on one elbow. "I don't even get a Kenny?"

   "Too easy." Bebe laughed. "Too obvious."

   "But Cartman isn't obvious?"

   "You tell me."

   It wasn't something Craig really wanted to think about, but the only other thing on his mind was Token's imminent arrival, and so he closed his eyes and allowed it.

   "What would you do?" he asked, to buy himself some time.

   "Fuck Stan, marry Kyle, kill Cartman." Bebe made a motion with her hands like she was dusting them off. "Easy."

   "You wouldn't marry Stan?"

   "Stan, Wendy's ex boyfriend Stan? You're kidding. I couldn't do that to her."

   "I'm pretty sure she wouldn't care."

   Bebe shook her head. "It's a girl code thing. You _never_  date a friend's ex, even when she's over him. And I don't even know if Wendy _is_  over him. She really liked him and he kind of shattered her heart into a million pieces." She sighed. "I've been wondering if the opening act thing was on purpose. Just to mess with him," she said. "At least if we only slept together, she'd never find out."

   "Maybe." Craig had to admit defeat. "I'd do the same. Marry Kyle, and kill Cartman," he said, leaving the final part of that equation for Bebe to parse on her own. It wasn't the worst thought, really. At least Stan was generic-looking enough that Craig could easily close his eyes and pretend he was someone else.

   "Yeah? Here's an even better one." Even in the dark, Craig could see Bebe's teeth glint when she grinned. "Fuck, marry, kill: me, Clyde, and Token."

   Craig rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but then reconsidered and closed it again.

   "Yeah," Bebe said. She gave him a smile that let him know she was pleased with herself for thinking that one up.

   "Seriously?" Craig said. "You're kind of putting me in a position here. You know I have to kill you."

   "That's okay. I'd kill you too." Bebe hummed. "When it comes to Token, you know... who wouldn't? And Clyde seems. Marryable."

   "I think I'd probably fuck Clyde." It felt strange to say those words out loud, but when Craig glanced to Bebe, she was still staring at the ceiling, unfazed. "And marry Token. I can't imagine being married to Clyde."

   "You guys are practically already married."

   "We're really not."

   "Uh, yes you are?" Bebe rolled over onto her side to look at him. "You're always having sleepovers and, like, I don't know. Shopping."

   "Shopping?" Craig tried and failed to hold back a laugh. "You think when me and Clyde hang out we go shopping?"

   "I'm just saying I don't think Clyde would dress that well if somebody wasn't intervening."

   "And you just assume it's me?" 

   "Who else would be? His mom?"

   "Maybe I should just marry you," Craig said. "We could be well-dressed together, and leave Clyde to his own devices."

   "You said you'd marry Token," Bebe pointed out. "Not Clyde."

   "Oh."

   "Told you." He could hear the smirk in her voice.

   Craig fell asleep before sunrise, though fitfully. The pillows were too thin, and lumpy, and he kept waking up, wondering why Butters couldn't have just sucked it up and driven into the city and found a Hilton or someplace halfway decent. Craig could've spent his days in an indoor pool rather than a lounge that looked like it belonged in a retirement home. He could've socialized with other guests at a bar, rather than chatting with a middle-aged employee. Clyde would never have gotten away with bedding the receptionist of a Hilton in the middle of her shift.

   They would've roomed together, then. It wasn't true that they often had sleepovers at home. What happened was that Clyde often came over after work, drank too much, and lay on Craig's floor complaining about not having slept with anyone since high school, before eventually passing out. Whether this counted as a sleepover was debatable, Craig thought. Usually Clyde ended up heading home in the middle of the night. Sometimes he didn't, and just crawled into Craig's bed beside him, out cold again the second his head hit the pillow.

   It was Clyde who shook Craig awake on Tuesday morning, when the sky's light was still seeping blueish-indigo through the curtains, and Bebe was grumbling complaints from across the room, never a morning person.

   "Dude, look," Clyde said, ripping the curtains open, ignoring the way both Craig and Bebe groaned and covered their eyes like vampires. "Check it out!"

   Craig sat up, feeling every single one of his joints creak as he did. He knelt on the mattress and steadied himself, holding onto the windowsill. He squinted his eyes against the harsh daylight and looked outside, down at the parking lot.

   Moop's van was still there, but now there was another one, sleek and shiny-black, windows tinted dark. And Token was right in front of it, waving up at them.

   Craig found himself suddenly unable to breathe. Clyde fumbled for the latch, pushing the window as wide open as he could without falling out, clumsy with excitement.

   "Token!" Clyde called down. Absent-mindedly, Craig grabbed at the back of his shirt, perturbed by how far out Clyde was leaning, and the fact that Bebe was elbowing him out of the way, eager to see Token and the van for herself.

   "Guys!" Token called back, gesturing towards the van. "You like it?"

   "We love it!" Bebe told him, beaming. "It's way better than Thad's!"

   This was true, Craig thought. Thad's had a kind of vintage look to it, a brown and black colour scheme on the outside that Craig found dated and tacky. This van was like Moop's: it looked new, though it had most likely done years of service with some rental company or another, and it was subtle, almost covert. From what Craig could tell, it was completely unmarked.

   "How did you afford that thing?" Craig shouted.

   "It was an investment!" Token replied. "Plus, she's kind of a fixer-upper. Come down and see for yourselves!"

   "A fixer-upper, what the hell does that mean?" Craig asked Clyde, once the window was firmly closed. Bebe was getting dressed in the middle of the room, all modesty forgotten, and Craig realised that Clyde had run in without pants on, only a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, like it was Christmas morning.

   They congregated down in the parking lot when they were all fully clothed, Craig in yesterday's jeans and an ancient sweatshirt he didn't remember packing, and his hat, to hide the fact that he hadn't showered the day before. Bebe pounced Token first, wrapping her arms around his neck and dragging him down to her level for a crushing hug; Clyde didn't wait until she was done to join in, standing beside Token and throwing an arm over his shoulders. Craig hung back, but he was smiling.

   Token looked good. Healthy, though he'd ditched college football after one season and taken up golf, and happy, despite the fact that he'd been driving all night. Craig didn't go in for a hug, but they exchanged a look that Craig hoped counted for as much. Clyde was still sort of clinging, and Bebe was too. Token slung an arm around each of them and Craig laughed and felt light for the first time in, he realised, months. Maybe years. The thought came in a flash and it scared him, so he didn't dwell on it.

   The smile slipped from his face when Token opened up the side door of the van and ushered them inside.

   "What happened to the floor?" was the first thing Craig could think to say. They were standing on some kind of misshapen layer of white-painted metal, which felt thin, and shook under each footstep.

   His voice echoed in the space. They were in what Craig assumed was a kitchenette, though it was bare, boasting a fridge and some countertops and a wall-mounted trash bin that was secured with several layers scotch tape, but nothing else. Everything was encrusted with a layer of dirt, and Craig could even see a few spiderwebs in the corners.

   "I guess somebody tore it up," Token said, looking down.

   "And the stove?" Bebe asked, gesturing towards a conspicuous gap between two counters.

   "Okay, so there's a little wear and tear. I don't know what you expected."

   "There's a bathroom, right?" Clyde asked, wringing his hands. "Please tell me the toilet works."

   "Yes! And I got a really good deal on it," Token said. "These things cost a fortune to rent. That guy, Thad? He had the right idea."

   Bebe looked concerned. "How much did you pay for this?"

   "I could sell it at a profit tomorrow," Token said, crossing his arms. "Seriously."

   Craig explored further, leading the way. Off the kitchenette was the corridor with the bunks, which thankfully seemed stable, though there were only four, and they didn't have curtains, only some papery vertical blinds. He couldn't tell if the bunks themselves had extremely thin mattresses or just straight planks of wood or metal. They reminded him vaguely of something from a prison.

   At the end of the corridor, he stopped, unable to go any further. This was the lounge area, a box littered with debris and a few random cushions scattered on the floor, and a collection of worn pornographic magazines piled in one corner. "Ugh, that smell." He took a step backwards, bumping into Bebe, who was trying and failing to look over his shoulder. "I think something died."

   "Oh come on, Craig," Token huffed.

   "No, I'm serious," Craig said.

   "He's right," Bebe said. "One time my cat left a dead mouse underneath the dryer. It smells kind of the same."

   "I'm sure it's not a dead mouse," Token said, though he didn't look very sure at all. "Uh. Anyway, we'll clean it out when we get back to town. Right?"

   "Sure." Craig gave the place one last, sweeping glance. It was the great tragedy of his life; he hated uncleanliness, but he also hated cleaning. "We have a week to kill, what else would we be doing?"

   They took Token to the Taco Bell for breakfast, which was completely deserted except for them and one employee, who still appeared to be half-asleep. Craig took off his hat and smacked it against the underside of the table a few times. During the walk across the parking lot, he'd developed a paranoia that some kind of arachnids had fallen on him and were nesting in the warm and nurturing environment of his beloved chullo, and he ignored the fact that Clyde was staring at him, clearly not understanding this.

   "Do you guys realise we could be playing at the Pepsi Center in a week?" Clyde asked, when Bebe went up to get their food, with a handful of bills from Craig's wallet.

   "I don't think we should get our hopes up," Token said. "I mean, okay. If we go, that's cool, we play in front of like twenty thousand people. If we don't, whatever, we travel by ourselves and do things our way. Both options are fine. We shouldn't rely on something if we don't know for sure that it's going to happen."

   "I'm just saying, I feel like you guys aren't really grasping the situation."

   Craig sighed. "Remember the one Red Wings game, where they played against the Park County kids? At the Pepsi Center?"

   "Yes," Token said, at the same time as Clyde said, "No."

   "I feel like that's us."

   "What do you mean? You think someone's going to come on stage and beat the shit out of us?"

   "It's just how I feel."

   "Well," Clyde said, with an air of finality. "I'm excited about it."

   "That's why we keep you around," Craig told him.

   Bebe returned with a tray loaded with what looked like the entire breakfast menu, and then some. "It's so good to have money again, oh my god," she announced, sitting down heavily beside Token, and helping herself to an oozing burrito.

   Craig didn't want to eat anything on the tray. It all looked greasy and reheated and garishly yellow in a way that turned his stomach, and he wished he had not paid for it. He didn't understand how Clyde, who supposedly liked Mexican cuisine, could eat here. Craig wasn't a food snob, but he drew a line, and opted instead to drink the watery iced tea Bebe had ordered for him.

   "Yeah, you said you guys were broke?" Token reached for the other burrito, and then hesitated, thinking better of it, and took a hash brown instead. "After, what? Two days on the road? How?"

   "It wasn't two days, it was like eight hours. We only had twenty-two dollars on us when we got kicked off the bus," Clyde said. "The rest of our money was with Thad."

   "And you didn't go to the police?" Token asked, frowning. "That's pretty messed up."

   Bebe was concentrating very hard on freeing her burrito from its paper wrapping. "Well, it was really more the band's money."

   Token wasn't impressed. "Still illegal," he said, around a mouthful of hash browns.

   "Well." Bebe shrugged. "It was 'the band's money' in the sense that we were going to pay him back with money we earned from the band?" Slowly, she raised her gaze, to meet Token's wide eyes. "And... maybe we neglected to tell him this until we were in Kansas?"

   "He was a dick, though," Clyde pointed out.

   "Unbelievable," Token said. He'd stopped eating.

   "It shouldn't be," Craig said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never actually been to a taco bell and honestly, i'm sorry.


	3. small town blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for talk of animal death in this chapter.

 

 

   Park County greeted them with a snowstorm, which Craig found ridiculous, because it was almost June and while he was by no means a worldly person, he felt that the weather in his little mountain town was bordering on freakish, in comparison to others. Their van was badly insulated, which probably had something to do with the lack of flooring. They all found themselves reaching for their coats, and hats, and gloves. Craig had noticed before that a lot of older people in South Park didn't bother with them. He wondered if it would eventually happen to him, too; that his nerve endings would all freeze up, and no longer respond, finally adapting to the frigid South Park weather.

   They could've gone anywhere, but in the end they'd decided to go back home for the week. Craig gazed out through the window, at the white dusting on all the houses they passed by. He was sitting on one of the bunks, the one on the bottom left, which he was planning to claim as his own. Clyde had taken the one above, which made Craig hope they were as sturdy as they looked. Technically, dying like this wasn't the worst way he could imagine: in a tour bus, with Clyde Donovan on top of him. The logistics of that would be different if he had his way, but when did he ever?

   "So what do you think died in here?" Clyde asked him, his voice echoing around the space, which brutally killed off any chance of Craig thinking of sex again any time soon. He'd almost gotten used to the smell, until Clyde brought it up. None of them had been able to brave the debris yet, but pledged to do so when they were safely in somebody's driveway, though Craig was sure that only one of their driveways would fit this van, and it was not his.

   "Probably a mouse," Craig said, hoping this was true, mostly because Bebe would freak if it was a cat. She was sleeping on the bunk across from his, her back turned to him, curled up in a ball with her coat over her like a blanket.

   The drive back had felt incredibly long, though it was only about ten hours, including the breaks they took so that Token could eat and go to the bathroom. They'd only met with Moop briefly before leaving, and they were dealing with yet another crisis, as Wendy had locked herself in one of their rooms and Butters had been assigned to sit in the hallway and coax her out. Privately, Craig thought that this sounded like something Kyle would do, not Wendy, but it had been years, and he didn't really know her anymore.

   Regardless, they'd all shaken Token's hand and promised to meet up at some point over the following week. Craig had checked out of that hotel determined not to mention the impending Denver show to anyone who didn't already know about it. Anita had not paid him any attention as they left, and Jaclyn had not been there, so Craig felt no emotion in particular upon leaving the state of Kansas, except that he hoped it would be a long time before he returned.

   Craig spent the rest of the journey mulling over the fact that he was sharing his space with the corpse of some poor animal, and missing Spot. He had entrusted her to Ruby and his parents. They didn't really understand the finer points of guinea pig care, but they knew how to keep her healthy, though not necessarily alive, because she was old, for a guinea pig. He hadn't bothered to call home and announce that he'd be back. It wasn't until they crossed into the town proper that he realised that it might have been a good idea, rather than just turning up at their doorstep. Not that it really mattered. He'd be gone again before they knew it, and hopefully for good.

   Token drove straight to his house, and then Craig and Clyde walked Bebe home, before heading down to their own street. It felt like every day after work, when they trudged back from the mall, except Clyde didn't insist on stopping at the general store to spend half of his wages on beer. He'd promised before that he didn't have a drinking problem, and Craig believed him. He was just bored. Craig wasn't sure, but he thought this was probably in issue that stemmed from having a little taste of college life and then returning to exactly what he'd left behind. The only time Clyde didn't seem bored was when they were performing, or practicing. Even though they'd been going over the same five original songs since the start, he always gave it his all, which wasn't a claim that Craig could make about himself.

   "Can I come over?" Clyde asked. "I'm not sure I want to see my dad right now."

   "Of course," Craig said, fishing his keys out of his backpack. Craig didn't really want to see him either. 

   Nobody was home, which was kind of an anti-climax. Craig didn't know where the hell his family would be at 8pm on a weekday if they weren't at home, but it at least meant the shower was free. He was paranoid that he smelled like a dead animal now, and didn't want Spot to see him like that. He left Clyde on the couch while he went up to the bathroom, and when he came back out, Clyde had migrated to his room, leaving the door wide open behind him. He was stretched out on the bed and watching Craig's TV.

   "I don't know what we're going to do about the van," Craig said after he'd seated himself on the floor in front of Spot's cage. It was more of an enclosure, now, with no covering on top. Stripes one through five had lived in a medium-sized boxy prison, but since Craig had gotten a job, his parents had been unable to stop him from expanding Spot's living quarters until they took up almost the majority of his bedroom. He took her out and put her in his lap. He wanted to sit there and stroke her for five times as long as he usually did, to make up for how long he'd been away. "It needs more work than we can do in six days, I think. We have to insulate it. And figure out what to do about the floor. And I'm not going to be the one who goes poking around for the dead rodent." He held Spot closer to him, shielding her from his words.

   "I think we have to get our dads involved," Clyde said. "Well, not my dad, but. Your dad."

   "Token's dad is a lawyer." Gently, Craig kissed Spot's little head, worried she wouldn't like his tone. She was kind of sensitive. "Bebe's dad lives in Wyoming."

   "We'll be fine," Clyde said, in the way he did when he was getting tired of a conversation, or maybe just tired in general. "Remember when we used to build treehouses and stuff?"

   "I remember when you fell out of one."

   "I did not fall," Clyde said. "I was pushed."

   Spot squeaked her agreement.

 

  
-v-

 

  
   As it turned out, Craig's dad was overjoyed at the prospect of helping to refurbish a touring van. He'd been less overjoyed to find Craig asleep on the couch when he finally came in at 11pm with Craig's mother and sister in tow, and remained unimpressed when Craig groggily tried to explain that Clyde was out for the count in his bed. But things went better in the morning, after Clyde finally shuffled off home and Ruby went to school, and Craig called Token and asked him to bring the van around.

   "What died in here?" was all Craig's dad said when he stepped inside for the first time.

   Token and Craig exchanged a look, and Token cleared his throat. "The thing is, we haven't really been able to, um. Work up the nerve to find out."

   "Oh Lord," said Craig's dad, touching his forehead. "Okay. You boys go get me some garbage bags. This wont be pretty."

   Clyde appeared while Token and Craig were sitting on the icy sidewalk, waiting. There had been no sound from inside the van in quite some time. Clyde sat down beside them, looking a little glum.

   "How'd it go with your dad?" Craig asked him.

   Roger Donovan had reacted not with anger, but disappointment, when half of his entire staff had handed in their two weeks' notices. He'd never been Craig's biggest fan, and according to Clyde, he was now dead-set on blaming him for attempting to drag his son off around the United States and into a life that he assumed would include a myriad of drug binges and orgies. In Craig's opinion, it was actually more the other way around.

   "I don't know." He put his chin in his hands. "I didn't tell him about the Pepsi Center."

   Token sighed. "I didn't tell my parents either."

   Craig's dad chose that moment to appear, with a trash bag in hand that was decidedly full.

   "What was it?" Craig asked, not entirely sure he really wanted to know.

   "Couldn't say, but it sure as shit wasn't a mouse," his dad replied, passing by them on the way to throw it out, and missing the look of abject horror on all of their faces.

   Craig spent the rest of the afternoon trekking around the hardware store with his dad and Token, and Clyde, who insisted on tagging along. While hunting for the animal corpse, his dad had carried out some sort of assessment and he now held a shopping list, of all the things they'd need to make the van live-able, though not glamorous. They'd inspected the storage area in the back and found it completely intact, so it was just the quarters had needed to be patched up. Most of what they bought was timber. Clyde was instructed to carry it.

   "Didn't you used to be a quarterback?" Craig's dad asked him, when he looked like he might complain.

   "Nope," Clyde said. "Not even once."

   Fucking Stan Marsh, Craig thought. So famous, even his legacy of being a lifelong quarterback had been almost universally forgotten.

   "Do you ever get the impression that we haven't actually done anything since high school?" Craig asked, when his dad was out of earshot. They were loitering around a display of patio furniture, which Clyde had seated himself on. He was texting Bebe. She was still working on the merch situation, and had apparently been put in touch with someone from Moop's label, who were helping to ease some of the financial burden. They'd already agreed to hire a professional driver for _Craig and Those Guys_ , and cover their fuel costs, though they would not put anything towards the printing of t-shirts. Craig thought this was reasonable.

   "No. I went to Yale," Token pointed out.

   "Not you," Craig said, a little irritably.

   "So you mean... you," Token replied, raising an eyebrow.

   "Forget it," Craig said, because that was exactly what he had meant, and didn't appreciate it having it pointed out.

   By the time they got home again, Craig didn't feel like helping. He was tired and hungry, and watching Clyde grow somewhat sweat-damp under the weight of all the timber he'd been lugging around made him want to be alone. Regardless, he spent time sitting there on the floor of the van, with the icy wind seeping in the wide-open door as the horrible smell seeped out, and held things while they were stapled, and offered his opinions on what colour curtains they should get for the bunks.

   Craig's dad clearly wanted him to be more involved with the project, but Craig felt quite inadequate when confronted with the reality of laying down sheets of insulation and using power tools. He felt even more inadequate when Ruby came home and got to helping out like she knew what she was doing, her sleeves rolled up and her hair pinned back. She took shop class as an elective, Craig knew. She had always been impressed with their father's career as a roofer in a way that Craig had never been able to comprehend.

   After sunset, Token went home for dinner, and Craig's dad went inside for a beer. Clyde had wandered off hours ago to Bebe's house, which left the two of them alone. They'd cleared out most of the miscellany from the living area -- Craig noticed the porn magazines had disappeared at some point, though he wasn't sure who had taken them -- and now they were working on cleaning. Craig was scrubbing at the sink, and Ruby was vacuuming up spider webs from the corners.

   There were no spiders on the webs, but Craig didn't take comfort in that. Dead or alive, they had to be somewhere.

   The next day was more of the same. Afterwards, when their parents had gone to bed, he ate cereal in the kitchen with Ruby and used her tweezers to pick splinters from his fingertips. The van was going to have a sort of homespun look, but that was alright. It was minimalism. Pine wood and white.

   "Derek said he can come help us tomorrow," Ruby said. She was sitting at the counter, doing homework, though she also had her iPad open next to her, displaying her Facebook homepage. Craig no longer used Facebook, though his profile hadn't been deactivated. He'd developed a sort of phobia of logging in, now that he hadn't done so for years. He was worried about what messages people might have left for him -- or worse, that there would be none at all.

   "Great. He can take my place," Craig said. "Then everybody wins."

   The dead silence was a bad sign. Ruby was writing something, a very long paragraph, and the scratching of her pen and the clinking of Craig's spoon against the side of his bowl were the only sounds. Her iPad dinged with a notification, but she ignored it.

   Just when Craig thought he might be safe, she muttered, "I was nice to your boyfriend, when you had one."

   Craig looked at her. Ruby Tucker had not changed much over the years; at seventeen, she could pass for twelve, and she still wore her hair in two ponytails, and had inherited the same bone-skinny physique that Craig possessed. She had also inherited the Tucker family talent for cutting an aggressor to the quick with one remark. Craig was numb to most of the things she threw at him, by now, and it went both ways.

   She kept on writing, seemingly oblivious, but Craig took it for an act, because she was his sister, his flesh and blood. She knew what got under his skin.

   "That's because you were five when I started dating him," Craig told her, and then grunted as he yanked out a splinter, examining his finger under the light that hung above the island counter they were sitting at.

   "You're acting like you're five now."

   They'd had this conversation at least twenty times since Derek appeared in Ruby's life, and Craig barely saw the point in having it again. He could tell when his sister was spoiling for a fight. It happened at least once a day.

   Craig closed his eyes and thought of Derek, preparing his argument. Where should he begin? The outright uncomfortable age difference of one year and four months? The complete inability to make eye contact with any other member of Craig's family? The acne?

   "Rubes, I just think he's a little creepy," he said, calmly, setting the tweezers aside. "We don't really know anything about him."

   Ruby threw down her pen, and gave him the dirty look to end all dirty looks. "Well maybe if you _spoke_  to him--"

   "I'd rather not." Craig held up a hand to silence the retort that was clearly on the tip of her tongue. "I just spent the last week speaking to people I wanted to dedicate the rest of my life to avoiding. It takes a toll."

   "Okay. Fine. Whatever. Don't come." Ruby pushed her notes away and got to her feet, her stool screeching on the tiles, like nails on a chalkboard. "It's not like it'll make a difference."

   "What's that supposed to mean?"

   "It means you don't _do_  anything. All you do is sit there and talk about curtains."

   "Oh, and you do so much more."

   "I actually do!" she yelled, slamming her hands down on the countertop. "Dad taught me how! You know. Because _you_  were never interested."

   Craig narrowed his eyes at her. "Yeah, I get it, Dad is disappointed because I turned into the effeminate gay son he never wanted. Hit me with another."

   Ruby put her hands on her hips. "You're not effeminate, Craig, you're spoiled."

   "I am not spoiled. I work for a living. I support my fucking guinea pig."

   "No, you don't! You quit your job to become a rock star! And you have grandiose delusions! Because your music is the worst thing I've ever heard!"

   "Says you," Craig said, looking her over. "You haven't played an instrument since the recorder in the third grade. And you were terrible."

   She flipped him off. He flipped her off, in return, and then tossed his bowl in the sink and went up to bed.

 

  
-v-

 

  
   The next morning, Craig once again regressed to staying under the covers for an unnecessarily long period of time.

   He wasn't really upset about the argument. If arguing with Ruby disabled him in some way, he'd never be able to leave the house. They'd bickered since she was old enough to talk, and he knew that, like all the times before, they'd return to civility eventually, with no hard feelings, though also without having changed each other's minds in any way.

   He lay there until he heard his parents' cars pull out of the driveway, and then he fetched Spot and took her to bed with him. It made him feel a little better when she fell asleep in the crook of his elbow. How could he ever leave her? He knew his family would feed and clean her, but he didn't entirely trust that they would socialize her. Were guinea pigs intelligent enough to miss people? Craig thought that they were, though Spot was not the smartest one he'd ever owned. She made up for it by being adorable.

   She startled when his phone rang. It was Bebe, and though Craig considered ignoring the call, he picked up at the last second.

   "We're going to Denver to sign the contract," she said in greeting. "Token wanted everything in writing, like he thinks that's a thing he can say now because he went to Yale, so we had an agreement written up and it's being signed today. We're all heading out in an hour, if you want to come."

   He didn't want to come, and he told her as much. Token being in Denver meant the van would be off-limits, giving Craig a fair amount of time to do whatever he wanted, which was his favourite thing to do.

   "Who is paying for all this?" he asked.

   "Not us," Bebe said, and hung up.

   Because Craig had nothing better to do, he dragged his laptop up from the floor and decided to start doing his research.

   Moop had a Wikipedia page. Both of their albums had a Wikipedia page. Their previous tour had a Wikipedia page as well. Their website - done up in the same black and garish magenta that made up the logo on the side of their tour bus - announced thirty-five dates throughout the summer, spanning North America, including Canada. Craig felt his heartbeat quicken as he read through the list. Chicago. New York. Miami. Los Angeles. Washington DC. Though he'd recognise their skylines anywhere, he'd never set foot in a single one. His explorations, when he was younger, tended to take him south of the border, and he barely remembered them now. He supposed he'd technically passed through Texas at one point -- Moop had two shows lined up there. Were they big in the south, or was it simply that the south, itself, was big?

   He thought of Kyle's New York loft, and Kenny's mansion in Miami, and Cartman's no-doubt extravagant setup in Palo Alto, and Stan, wherever the hell he lived. They would hit every stop, four corners, and now that he thought about it, wasn't that strange? Token living halfway across the country had felt like enough of a loss. Craig couldn't imagine having Clyde and Bebe scattered to the winds as well, making their homes at offset compass points, with Colorado at the centre.

   They would play two shows in their home state. One would be the first, and one the last. Craig was now -- or would soon be -- contractually obligated to participate in both. He had a feeling that when the second Colorado show rolled around, he wouldn't be the same Craig Tucker who sat curled up in his bed at home with his laptop pulled up to his chin, unable to even imagine the sight of thousands of people all looking in his general direction, willing to listen to him perform music with his very best friends in the world, music he'd written bits of and hated bits of but which was all one-quarter legally his. He still hadn't quite wrapped his mind around the fact that they were getting t-shirts made. In days, he'd leave, and by the time he returned to this childhood bed he'd be a veteran, of stadiums, and concert halls, and maybe a festival or two.

   It was unthinkable. Would Spot even recognise him?

   Would he even recognise himself?

   How was he supposed to feel?

   Craig stared at the ceiling and found that he actually felt nothing. Some part of him, he realised, still believed that by the end of the week, Moop would be gone and he'd see them again no sooner than Christmas-slash-Hanukkah, and he would remain exactly where he was. He'd beg Mr. Donovan for his job back. He'd help renovate the bus and maybe help Clyde write that song about meeting Kenny at the truck stop. He'd play at bars on weekends and obsessively check their statistics on Youtube, waiting for something to go viral. And he would live. It would be so easy.

   Somebody knocked on his door around sunset. He still wasn't dressed, having done nothing all day but click around on his laptop and eat a few Poptarts, and his clothes were still packed away, so he answered the door in his t-shirt and boxer shorts, feeling a little bit like Clyde.

   Luckily, that was exactly who'd come knocking, so Craig knew he would not be judged.

   Clyde swayed on his doorstep, wearing a wobbly sort of smile, and Craig moved aside, granting him access.

   "Dude, no pants," Clyde said, somewhat loudly, and Craig was immediately glad his family wasn't home to hear him. "What's up with that?"

   "What's up with you being drunk at like four in the afternoon?" was Craig's reply, though he hugged his arms around himself. He wasn't sure he had the mental energy to tolerate hearing about Clyde's sex life today, which was all he ever wanted to talk about when he'd been drinking. It would be even worse now that he actually had one.

   "Um, okay, Debbie Downer," Clyde said, throwing himself down on Craig's couch, and displacing one of his mother's cushions, which fell to the floor. "I'm tipsy, first of all, not drunk, and second of all? I just had lunch with Stan and Kyle? We had fucking... sushi? And now I feel like..." He made a vague gesture with his hands. "...it's all been... _for_... something."

   Craig stayed standing, by the door. "Uh-huh."

   "You know what I mean?"

   "Not really."

   "I'm saying it's all coming together suddenly." Clyde rested his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. "It's all paying off. This tour is going to turn our lives upside down, Craig. When I was at lunch Stan and Kyle kept giving each other these looks like, 'oh god, he doesn't even know what's about to hit him'. I'm so ready for it."

   Craig crossed the room for the remote and turned on the TV, so that he didn't have to reply to that. _Friends_ was on, a show that Clyde never objected to, so Craig left him there with it and went upstairs to put on some pants. He chose yesterday's jeans, slung over the back of his desk chair, though he was unable to shake the feeling that Spot was watching him with judgement. He dug out a fresh pair instead.

   He lingered in his room afterwards, unwilling to go back down and face Clyde just yet. What was a man to do, when his friends were suddenly having sushi lunch dates with Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski, where Kyle probably raved about the authenticity to a degree that was insufferable, and Stan only had a god damn glass of water? This was his life now, too, and he felt distinctly not ready for it.

   It didn't matter. He was on the conveyor belt of his existence, a constant one-way trip, and turning back had never been an option.

   He eyed his bed, wanting to crawl back into it. But in the end, he just grabbed a random DVD from his shelf and headed back downstairs, where Clyde was waiting, expectant. He'd slung his jacket over the arm of the couch, and it looked damp, but Craig didn't care.

   "So," Clyde said, the moment Craig stepped into his field of vision. "We had the best idea, at lunch."

   "Oh?" Craig said. He busied himself with putting the DVD on. It was an artsy sort of film about teenagers in California, the kind that would put Clyde to sleep in an instant if they were really watching it, but it was dull enough to be background noise, which was all Craig really intended.

   "We were thinking you should do a tour diary," Clyde continued. "We could do vlogs and stuff, and tape some of our shows, and then at the end you could edit it all together and make it cool. And then we could put it on our website."

   "Sure," Craig said. "That's a good idea."

   It actually was. Craig was once going to go to school for film studies -- he'd told everyone he knew about his plans, which he regretted sometimes, now that he hadn't gone through with them. All he had now was a sort of weird hobby, splicing together random film clips from his phone and his camera, setting them to ambient sounds like the whirr of bicycle wheels or the blip-blip sound of pushing buttons on a microwave, and then uploading them to Youtube for the enjoyment of his small but dedicated audience.

   Making a tour diary would be similar, he thought, but without the element of pointlessness that made his projects 'art'. He didn't mind that. It soothed him, in a way, to think of his perspective on the upcoming tour as being behind a camera, rather than in the middle of everything.

   "Thanks," Clyde said, without looking away from the TV, though Craig could see in his periphery that he was smiling.

   They watched the film in the dark and talked about how unrealistic it was, Clyde with his elbow on the armrest, head in his hand. "What kind of high school has that many kids who smoke?" he said. "At our school it was just Kenny and some of those greasy-looking girls who hung around with him."

   "It's symbolic," Craig said, tonelessly, though he was smiling. "It portrays their apathy towards life, in general."

   "Nobody _that_  hot," Clyde said, pointing out the female lead, "smoked, at our high school."

   "No," Craig agreed, partly because nobody that hot had actually attended their high school. The actress had to be in her mid-twenties, older than they were now.

   "And who had _that_  much sex, at that age? What are they, juniors? They make it look so easy," Clyde complained, and Craig bit at his thumbnail and didn't say that it could've been, if he'd been asking the right person.

   Clyde fell asleep, but woke up abruptly when the credits started to roll. He declined the invitation to stay over, and Craig tried not to look disappointed, though he was. He loved the sight of Clyde Donovan in his bed, moreso than he loved the sight of him asleep on his couch. Actually sleeping next to Clyde tended to bring a number of issues -- mostly that Craig didn't sleep much at all, paranoid that he might do something lustful and insane in his sleep, like press kisses to the back of Clyde's neck, or rut against his leg like a dog. It had never actually happened, but Craig wasn't one for taking risks. Sometimes he turned out the lights and went to go and sleep on the couch, lingering for a moment in the doorway, quietly amused by the way Clyde slept in the foetal position, with his hands underneath his head, as though trying to make room for someone else on Craig's small, single mattress. Other times, he bit the bullet and listened to cars pass by outside his window, or his parents watching TV downstairs, or Ruby on the phone with her insufferable boyfriend, until all the sounds from the world died down and all he could hear was the sound of Clyde's breathing, all night.

   "See you tomorrow," Clyde said, pulling his coat back on, and Craig stayed in the front doorway and watched through the sleet until Clyde disappeared into his own house, not looking back.

  
-v-

  
   On the day that the others were attempting to install some kind of stove into the tour bus, Craig and Clyde made other plans. It was Saturday, and Craig's dad had recruited some of his friends from Skeeter's, as well as Ruby and her sketchy Park County High boyfriend. Craig had a feeling that Stuart McCormick might be there, because he had a tendency to get involved in any random DIY project that Craig's dad started, and he felt that associating with any of the remaining McCormick family would be some kind of betrayal of Kenny. He had no idea why he and Karen didn't visit them, and it wasn't the kind of thing that kept him up at night, but Craig had a knack for pinpointing things that could cause trouble down the line -- whether he avoided them or placed himself right in their trajectory was a variable, usually, but it was generally a crowd that Craig would not be able to tolerate for more than, at the absolute maximum, twenty minutes, and so he decided that he wanted nothing to do with the project, and slipped out of the house before his dad was even awake.

   As dawn broke, Craig closed the front door behind him and headed to Clyde's house. He was asked to wait in the living room while Clyde finished getting ready, and Craig didn't complain. They were making a pilgrimage, and he had a feeling that Clyde's mood might be even more fragile than usual. Craig sat on his hands on the Donovan family couch and looked at a picture of Betsy that was on their TV table, positioned in such a way that she seemed to be staring directly at whoever dared to sit on front of it. He held eye contact with her. He had nothing better to do.

   "Okay," Clyde said, coming down the stairs, which creaked under him. "Let's go."

   He was dressed like he was about to go skiing, which made sense. They would be walking, and the sky was turning a sort of milky grey colour that threatened snow. Craig only had a light jacket and his hat, but he didn't plan on going home and changing. They wouldn't be going too far.

   Like everyone else in South Park, Clyde was one for dredging up the past. Craig's errands, before leaving, were that he'd had to go to the bank to withdraw a few hundred dollars from his savings, and then stop at the T-shirt Factory to pick up a mock-up for Bebe, and then get himself a new contract for his cellphone. All Clyde wanted to do was visit a grave. And because Craig had participated in the burial all those years ago, he was expected to come.

   "I want to get a coffee on the way," Clyde said, as he locked his front door behind them. They had left empty-handed, but resolved to pick some wildflowers if any had managed to survive in the shadows of the conifers.

   "No," Craig said, all thoughts of Clyde's fragile emotional state forgotten. "Absolutely not."

   "Well, we went to get coffee that day. I want to do it the same as we did then."

   "Clyde. We went to get hot chocolate because I wanted to see Tweek. Because we were twelve." 

   "So? I actually do want a coffee right now. It'll keep my hands warm."

   Craig consented with a long-suffering sigh. "If you ever have a real ex, you'll understand how unreasonable this was."

   "Okay," said Clyde, clearly not listening.

   Snow crunched underfoot. The sun had risen now, but brought no warmth, and the streets were still quiet, a few commuters congregated by the bus stop, and a few going in and out of Tweak Bros. When they were close, Craig peeked into the front window; he could only see Tweek's parents, his dad at the register and his mom wiping down a table. He wasn't even completely sure if Tweek worked around customers or if he was still relegated to the back room, but he decided to play it safe and wait outside.

   "I'll be two seconds," Clyde promised.

   Craig waited, and checked his phone. All of his emails were promotional. One new comment in his Youtube notifications. One text from Token -- a picture of a rabbit in tiny sunglasses, which made him smile.

   Then he glanced up just in time to see Tweek Tweak come around the side of the building in a coffee-stained apron, in all his jittery glory, and Craig could not shake the feeling that he was being haunted.

   His palms started to sweat. He thought they'd figured out an arrangement, by now, where they kept their heads down if they had the misfortune of running into each other in the wild. Tweek had always held up his end of it, except for the first time they'd crossed paths after graduation. That was anomaly: that time, Tweek had clocked Craig across the street, stopped in his tracks, and then run off in the other direction without looking back.

   So Craig was surprised, to say the least, when Tweek sidled over and stood next to him like it was no big deal. He had the demeanour of a stray dog; cautious, skittish, but beseeching in a way that put Craig on edge. Though he was trembling, he had a determination about him that made him look not particularly _anxious_ , so much as just _wary_. There was something about that that made Craig's stomach twist with worry. Still, he stared down at his phone and hoped that if he just ignored Tweek, perhaps he would take the hint and leave, and they could just pretend this never happened.

   He didn't leave. Craig didn't look up. He felt like a possum, playing dead.

   "Um," Tweek said, after at least a minute of this.

   Craig took the bait, and looked Tweek over, mustering all of his patience. It was difficult, because Tweek's appearance was not awful; he'd finally mastered the art of pinning his wispy hair back from his face, Craig noticed, and he'd gained weight in a way that suited him, around his ass and thighs in particular, which he had desperately needed when he was a teenager. He still remembered Tweek as frail, chicken-legged. "What are you doing here?"

   "I work here," Tweek said. "What are you doing here?"

   "I'm just, you know. Existing in South Park." Craig leaned back against the brick wall, and put his hands in his pockets, feeling like an absolute high schooler. "Have you ever seen an ant's nest? You can get thousands of ants in one tiny little nest, and they all cram in there, crawling on top of each other. I feel like that's us. That's South Park."

   "Okay." Tweek stared down at his own shoes with some consternation. "Well. I didn't come out here to talk about ants."

   "No?" Craig asked, playing nonchalant, though his heart sank with the knowledge that Tweek had approached specifically to speak to him, and not just because it was a part of his routine to stand outside of Tweek Bros Coffee at 9.32am on Saturdays whether Craig Tucker was there or not. This conversation was being inflicted on him purpose, and something about that stung.

   And yet, Tweek didn't exactly look like he wanted to be there. His expression was sort of pinched. Like Craig's presence was something to be begrudgingly tolerated. Well, Craig thought, pulling his coat tighter around himself -- at least they were in the same agonising and awkward boat, and wasn't that something?

   "I, hnn-- I saw Token had a bus in his driveway. A tour bus?" Tweek tilted his head, though Craig couldn't be sure if this was an inquisitive gesture or just a muscle spasm. "Are you leaving town?"

   "Yes." Craig gave him a sidelong glance. "Feel free to throw a party."

   "Mm. I thought you already left town, but now you're back again. I was just-- wondering."

   The main street was like a wind tunnel. Craig hunched his shoulders, swearing he could feel the cold creeping up through the holes at the ends of his sleeves, and down the back of his neck.

   "Who told you we'd left?"

   "It was on Facebook." At Craig's lack of comprehension, Tweek added, "Ruby's Facebook."

   "I don't even want to know."

   "So you're leaving." Tweek paused, chewing on his bottom lip. "Again."

   "Tweek," Craig said. "Spit it out."

   "I want to come with you."

   It took a second, and then Craig asked, flatly, "Excuse me?"

   Tweek was wringing his hands, and shifting his weight; apparently the nerves had caught up to him. "Um. I can work?" He glanced back over his shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers, but there were none. "Um. For free? I don't know, just. I want to go. If I don't go now I never will. My parents are driving me to a fucking... early grave, man. I need this. I really really need this."

   Clyde chose that moment to come back outside with his paper coffee cup in hand, almost hitting Tweek with the door when he opened it. He stopped in his tracks when he saw who was there; Craig and Tweek, standing next to each other, and at the murderous look Craig gave him, he said, "Oh, fuck." Then he seemed to remember his manners and added, "Hi, Tweek."

   Tweek only gave him a silent glance, from underneath a lock of hair that had come loose and fallen in front of his eyes. Seeming to realise that he was now outnumbered, he pressed his back against the window.

   "Tweek was just telling me about how he wants to become a stowaway," Craig said.

   "A stowaway?" Clyde moved to stand on Craig's other side, and, indulgently, Craig smirked. "Like on a boat?"

   "Like on our van. He says his parents are trying to kill him."

   "No, that's not what I said!" Irritably, Tweek brushed the hair from his face. His cheeks were growing pink. "You don't know what it's like for me, Craig. Why are you making this difficult? I'll do whatever you want! God! Do I have to beg?"

   "Uh, no, you don't have to beg, Tweek," Clyde intervened. He looked worried that Craig might ask Tweek to get down on his knees right there in the street, or push him until he collapsed their of his own accord.

   As it happened, there were few people in the world who Craig was unwilling to verbally eviscerate at a moment's notice. Tweek Tweak had the rare privilege of being one of them, and Craig hoped he knew and appreciated this.

   "What exactly were you planning on doing for us? Playing the tambourine?" Craig asked.

   "No! I don't want to be on stage, that's way too much pressure. I don't know how you guys can do that, it's --" Tweek grabbed at his hair, pulling at the roots. "Gah! What else could I do?"

   "Can you drive a bus?" Clyde suggested.

   "Nn-- No." Tweek shook his head, displacing even more hair from the haphazard arrangement of clips. "I can't drive anything."

   "You're not exactly selling yourself here," Craig told him.

   Tweek thought about it, chewing on this thumbnail. "I could be your personal assistant?"

   "I don't want you to be my personal assistant."   

   Tweek let out an actual scream of frustration, and Craig backed away, wondering if he'd gone too far.

   "Look, we'll find a place for you somewhere," Clyde said, reaching out to touch Tweek's shoulder. He recoiled with a squeak. "We're leaving on Monday, so can you just hang out here until then, or...?"

   "Okay -- just don't forget me." Tweek shuddered, and then hugged his arms around himself. "I'll be waiting."

   They left him there on the sidewalk, heading up towards the path that led to the farms. The cows were out today. It was too cold for them to graze, so they only huddled, giving Craig and Clyde mournful gazes as they passed by.

   "What the fuck was that?" Craig asked, turning to Clyde once Tweek was well out of earshot. "He didn't even ask how I was."

   Clyde stared at him. "Are you serious?"

   "Ugh," Craig said.

   He felt prickly all over. Restless. For a long time now, he had believed that on some level, Tweek represented everything that was wrong with this town and Craig's life. No matter how many ups and downs Tweek had, he continued to survive in the immobile way that Craig also did. Moving neither forwards, nor backwards. Trapped in the spin-cycle like everyone else.

   Craig was aware that this was unfair, because it wasn't Tweek's fault that he had the misfortune of being born here, and it wasn't even his fault that he had stayed. He told himself that he would've been nicer to Tweek, if he hadn't had the audacity to look so incredibly stale. Other than getting a tiny bit plumper, did he ever change? Did he ever improve or disintegrate? Did he have to hold a mirror up to Craig's own life, by being a pure constant -- always fucking _somewhere_ , just a relic, a backdrop to Craig's own and equal stagnancy?

   "Craig?"

   They were well into the forest now -- Craig had hardly noticed. He'd stopped walking in the middle of the trail, and Clyde was a few feet in front, watching him with alarm.

   "I think I need to sit down," Craig said. But there was nowhere to sit -- only trees on all sides, trees and dirt, and sitting in the dirt didn't appeal to him. So he stayed standing.

   "We're almost there." Clyde reached out one gloved hand, almost as though he was inviting Craig to take it. "Don't let it bother you, man. It's just Tweek."

   What bothered Craig had almost nothing to do with Tweek, but he nodded and forced himself to keep walking. The trail was overgrown, with grasses and brambles snagging at their calves, but Craig had no real attachment to these jeans. He'd picked ones he didn't mind getting dirty, though in hindsight he wasn't sure why he'd expected to. It wasn't like they were going to dig Rex up again, after all.

   When they came to the clearing, Craig recognised it immediately. Great pines towered on all sides, but for one anomaly; there was one great big sturdy tree of some species Craig couldn't name, and near the base of it was the stone that served as the grave marker, half-buried by snow.

   Clyde took his place to the side of where they'd laid Rex to rest, all those years ago. The whole scene was pretty fucked-up and morbid in hindsight: Clyde had carried Rex, bundled in a blanket, in both arms, struggling under the weight of him. Craig had taken the shovel, and a bouquet of daisies Clyde had picked from the roadside by his house and insisted on taking. It was a sad procession. In silence, they'd trekked past the farms, up dirt roads and into the forest. Their frozen little fingers, the snow on their boots. They'd dug the grave together, dodging the tree's gnarled old roots, until their palms were raw and aching and tears stung their eyes from the cold.

   Clyde had lain Rex down in the dirt as though he was sleeping. Craig expected a speech, but Clyde did not say anything, so Craig gave one instead; his head bowed, he listed off some generic platitudes, about dogs, and pets, and loyalty, and best friends. Clyde had been horribly silent on the way home, as though in a trance, and Craig had rubbed his back and prayed to God that Stripe would live forever.

   He hadn't, but by then Craig had made his peace with it, because Stripe had been ill and skinny for months. Rex hadn't. Though he was old, he'd died suddenly and in the midst of a seizure, and Craig didn't find out until Clyde called him the next day, demanding his help with the burial.

   "Do you think it's true that all dogs go to heaven?" Clyde asked. He had his hands clasped in front of him, and he was looking down at the ground, where grass had long since sprouted over the body of his long-dead dog.

   "Sure." Craig stood by Clyde's side, with his hands in his pockets. "They have no concept of right and wrong."

   "Rex never did anything wrong." Clyde sniffed, sounding like he might cry, though Craig knew he wouldn't. He was always weird about death, that way. "He was such a great dog."

   Craig wasn't sure it was true, that Rex was so perfect. Clyde's family had gotten Rex as a puppy, so he'd almost certainly pissed on the carpet at least a couple of hundred times, and sometimes he could be heard barking at night, which always frightened Stripe. In spite of the stress, Stripe had outlived Rex by seven months. Craig hadn't buried him in the forest. He'd been sure that a fox would dig him up and consume his remains no matter how deep of a hole they put him in, so all the Tucker household's deceased pets were in the backyard, under what was now Craig's mom's vegetable patch.

   "Do you think you'll ever get another one?" Craig asked. Clyde still insisted on petting every friendly dog he passed in the street, and he participated in dogspotting groups online. Craig thought that was a little strange. He'd always figured Clyde would be happier if he had his own dog to look at, instead of having to settle for admiring other people's.

   This reminded Craig of the clip he'd taken of the dog in Kansas, being walked on that sunny day. He hadn't shown it to Clyde yet. He had another clip festering in with his saved videos that he wasn't ready to acknowledge, even for the purpose of deleting it -- which he would, he told himself, eventually. Craig swallowed hard, and forced himself to stay in the moment.

   "Maybe." Clyde knelt down to touch the rock they'd used to mark the grave. It was huge, so heavy it had taken both of them to lift it, back then, and had stayed there for all this time, growing moss at a leisurely pace. "But then it would get old, and I'd have to do this all over again."

   "I think it's worth it."

   For a long time, they stood in silence. Craig had no idea what Clyde was thinking about -- he usually didn't. He'd imagined sometimes, as a child, that Clyde's head was simply empty most of the time, producing original thoughts only immediately before he spoke to voice them. Craig was too old now to believe that other people's didn't also have their own internal narratives. He wasn't sure if he had ever believed that. The fact that vague consternation was the look on Clyde's face most of the time didn't really mean anything, except that he wasn't expressive, and who was Craig to question that?

   "It's weird to me," Clyde said, "how animals' lives revolve around their owners. Like you with your guinea pigs. They meet you as babies, and they live their whole lives with you and then they die." Craig shifted his weight, because this sounded familiar, and he wondered if that should disturb him, but it didn't. "It really makes you wonder what they think of us."

   "How do you mean?"

   "You could be a god to them." Clyde tilted his head back, looking at the sky. There wasn't much of a canopy here, and it was as a cloudless and clear day. "With Rex, I think he saw me as his best friend. Like you said when we buried him."

   "That's sweet." Craig wanted to move closer, to knock their shoulders together, but he didn't dare to. "I actually think Spot sees me as some kind of slave."

   Clyde laughed at that, denting the sombre mood. "I used to sing to him," he said, looking to Craig, an unusual sparkle in his brown eyes. "Before I started. You know. Singing with you." Craig felt on the verge of being emotional about that; the mental image of little Clyde, perched on the side of his bed, singing softly to his dog while Rex licked at his own balls, or whatever dogs did. The real memory of Clyde, singing to the opposite wall, perched on Craig's bed beside him while Craig accompanied on his dad's old acoustic guitar, falling horribly in love. Clyde smiled, possibly having the same thought. "Imagine if we could go back in time and tell our kid selves where we'd end up."

   "At a dog's grave, in a forest, in South Park?"

   "You know what I mean."

   Craig looked around. Where had they ended up, really? How could Clyde use that phrase, 'ended up'? They were only twenty-two, and Craig hoped he'd never end up anywhere, though he would, inevitably.

   "Yeah. We've improved a lot since then," he said, because it was what Clyde wanted to hear. They no longer played exclusively _Pink Floyd_  covers in the privacy of their bedrooms -- at some point, Craig had discovered an instrument he liked better than the guitar, and Clyde had taken it on in his stead, and then Token had completed their sound with his exceptional talent, and Bebe had been the secret ingredient they didn't even know they needed. From those gnarled little roots, they'd become something.

   "For sure," Clyde said. "I don't sound like a dying frog anymore, for one thing."

   Craig snorted. "You never did, dude."

   Clyde smiled at him, and Craig shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. There were wildflowers here, after all; sprouted in the undergrowth by a pine tree, weak and small but alive, somehow untouched by the snow.

 

  
-v-

 

  
   On Sunday afternoon, Craig sat on a rickety chair at M-Burger while rain assaulted the outer windows, washing away the last of the snow flurries. The evening before, over a tense family dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, he'd listened to his mother guilt-trip Ruby for refusing to speak to him, lecturing her about how soon she wouldn't have the chance. Unsurprisingly, Ruby had scoffed, as though a few months without Craig around was nothing to be sorry about, but she'd sent him a text this morning and now, here they sat, sharing a box of chicken tenders and a large portion of fries.

   Craig was wracking his brains, trying to dredge up some inspiration from the other stores he could see from where he was sitting. Just about everybody from school had worked here, at some point. Except for Token, and also Eric Cartman, though Craig didn't have to ask where he'd ended up. "What about Heidi Turner?"

   "Heidi Turner..." Ruby hummed, tapping at her phone. "She's at CSU, graduating... next week. Her grandma is very excited to attend." She scrolled down, and then snickered. "Look, her boyfriend has this weird mole on his forehead, check it out."

   "Yikes," Craig said, after leaning over to take a look, because it was a pretty weird mole. 

   He sank back in his seat, feeling strange and self-conscious. Their table was tiny and low to the ground, and his legs barely fit under it. He felt like a dead crane fly, shrivelling in on himself. Ruby had insisted on a window seat, because she liked to people-watch, and so he tried to distract himself by looking past her and out at the shoppers walking by, to see if he recognised anybody. He didn't, but someone passed with a yellow Labrador on a fluorescent harness. Craig got out his cellphone and recorded a clip of it fearlessly guiding its owner through the crowd.

   Craig could feel himself developing a sort of complex about the mall, now that he no longer worked there. For a while, _Craig and Those Guys_ had a standing Thursday evening gig between the elevators. They were seen by maybe a few hundred people each week, but made an average of twenty dollars in tips. Ruby used to come by with her friends often, for the apparently sole purpose of watching from several feet away and loudly pointing out how lame she thought their music was. Craig knew she was full of shit -- in so many ways, she was just like him. She'd gravitated towards the bitter and the two-faced, slowly paring away all of her nice friends until she was left with what she had now; a posse of catty girls who were sadistic in a way that was distinctly adolescent. They'd all grow up normal, he was sure. There was something humbling about the harsh reality of adulthood. Craig wouldn't say that growing up had made him kinder, but it had taught him to pick his battles, which was really the best anyone could hope for.

   Even with the teenage hecklers, Craig had found the experience of playing a the mall to be a useful one. Most of their shows at dingy basement-level bars were sparsely populated and terrifying, and the South Park Mall had taught him that the more eyes were on them, the less self-conscious he felt. He credited this phenomenon for his lack of nerves about the upcoming Pepsi Center show, which was in around thirty hours.

   He hadn't mentioned it to Ruby. For now, he was content to sit with her and investigate the lives of people he used to know via her Facebook app, a process that she seemed to be enjoying more than he was.

   "What about Kevin Stoley?" he asked. Kevin's parents lived next door still, and though they'd had a neighbourly sort of conversation on Craig's front lawn last Christmastime, Craig honestly could not recall a single thing Kevin had said about what he was doing with his life.

   "I think he's going to grad school for astrophysics or something. His parents tell, like, everyone," Ruby said, rolling her eyes.

   "Figures," Craig said. He was reminded of distant childhood games, playing spaceman, and wondered if he should try to write a song about his once all-consuming dream to walk among the stars, which had lasted for about five days in elementary school. He wasn't as dedicated as Kevin in any way, clearly. "Good for him, though. Really."

   "I guess," Ruby said, without looking up. "Ha. That blond girl Annie got a degree in film studies."

   "Well, fuck Annie," Craig said, knowing he'd never repeat that to her face, which unsettled him. He took a large bite from a chicken tender and then asked, with his mouth full, "What happened with Wendy Testaburger?"

   "I don't have her as a friend on here." Ruby frowned. "But she's friends with your friend Bebe. She seems fine, anyway. Her profile's all private, but she looks... well, her nose looks kinda big in this picture, but other than that."

   "I think she's having some kind of mental breakdown," Craig said. Then he realised he didn't really want to elaborate on that, though Ruby looked eager. "What about Karen McCormick?"

   "Oh, god, Karen! Look at _this_  snobby little bitch," Ruby said, with absolute delight. She tapped at her screen, and then turned her phone around to show Craig a picture. It was Karen in a white bikini top and a tennis skirt, looking very Hollywood as she attempted to hide her face from the camera, mid-laugh. Though her colouring was different from Kenny's, she had the same strong patches of freckles, on her shoulders and the bridge of her nose. "Can you believe she keeps in touch still? She's going to college this year. Pre-med."

   "Wow." Craig said. He was impressed, but not surprised. "And Kevin?"

   "I think he's in jail?" Ruby put her phone down on the table and ate some fries. She preferred them with liberal amounts of mayonnaise, which Craig found disgusting, so he looked away. "I haven't seen him in a while. Maybe he just moved away, but, you know."

   "Yeah. I'm guessing jail," Craig said. There was a fry squashed on the tile, possibly one of Ruby's. It oozed its potato insides, smeared, and Craig found himself staring at it. He was glad he'd landed a job at the shoe store instead of somewhere like M-Burger, all those years ago. "Are you friends with Butters Stotch?" Craig asked. He remembered that in school, Butters had accepted friend requests from absolutely everyone. 

   "Uh-huh. He posts pictures with Moop all the time," Ruby said, and showed him, flipping through a few images. Butters, with a clipboard in hand and a headset on, distracted by something off-camera, with Stan Marsh's arm around him. Butters, on a plane, asleep with his head on Kenny's shoulder, as Kenny smiled at the camera and raised a mock-toast with a glass of champagne. Butters, barely-visible in a nightclub, with somebody's underwear on his head like a hat -- hopefully his own. "Most of these are up on the band's Instagram, but not all of them. It's pretty cool."

   "He was such a loser in school," Craig said, resting his chin in his hand. He didn't feel guilty for saying it -- just because he approved of Butters as a person didn't mean there wasn't, once, an objective truth about his social status. "I can't believe he ended up with them. Where do you think he's living now?"

   He could imagine Butters out in California, staying in some modest-but-sleek apartment in Calabasas, or maybe in San Francisco. Spending his days on beaches and his nights around bonfires with surfers, or whatever people did in California. He'd always needed to unwind a little, Craig thought, and he couldn't think of many places that were more relaxed. If he'd gone back to Hawaii, Craig would already know about it. Jimmy had gone to college in Honolulu and seemed intent on staying permanently, trying to launch a stable career in comedy or music or both.

   "No idea," Ruby said, breezily. "But speaking of losers, you want me to look up Tweek?"

   "No," Craig said, sharply, and Ruby snorted into her strawberry milkshake.

   "All he does is post nonsense about the government tracking our social media, or something," Ruby said. "You're not missing much."

   "The government _does_  track our social media," Craig pointed out.

   "Sure. Everyone knows that, and we've all come to terms with it by now, and yet he keeps posting about it. But the thing is," she said, showing Craig his profile, which he averted his eyes from, "all there is to see on his social media is stuff about the government tracking social media. Like, that's all the government would see if they were tracking him. I just don't get it. It's paradoxical."

   "That's great," Craig said.

   "He always 'likes' my pictures of Mittens, though."

   "Do you want a refill?" Craig asked, abruptly getting up out of his seat, though Ruby's milkshake was only half gone and so was his Dr. Pepper. She ignored him, absorbed in something on her screen, so he went up to the counter and ordered two more drinks. The cashier looked familiar in a way that got under his skin. Around here, who didn't?

   When he returned, Ruby sighed, flicking her bangs out of her face. "Clyde still wont add me as a friend. Can you believe that?"

   "Yes," Craig said, sitting down heavily, glad for the subject change. "He only adds people he knows, and girls."

   "Well I'm both!"

   "I mean, women."

   "Craig!"

   "I think it's like, Bebe's friends and girls he meets on OKCupid or whatever. I don't know. I don't use Facebook." Craig had only knew that much because he remembered it from high school, but knowing Clyde, nothing would have changed. "What does he post about?"

   "Sports," Ruby replied. "Basically all sports. His opinions about... players?" she said, shrugging. "Broncos stuff. Here's a picture of him and Token... Ew, is that were you guys were staying?"

   Craig flipped her off, but in a lighthearted way. He was somewhat relieved, actually, to hear that Clyde's profile was so normal. He sometimes worried about Clyde's online presence -- though it never happened when Craig was still using Facebook, he felt that Clyde was the sort of person who would publicly 'like' pages like _Backdoors Sluts 9_ and _Lesbian Cheerleaders_ , and set his profile picture to an image of a red Ferrari or a dirt bike or something.

   "What's dogspotting?" Ruby asked, gawking at her screen and tilting her head to the side.

   "Don't worry about it," Craig said.

 

  
-v-

 

  
   Craig and Clyde picked Tweek up in the early morning and in a way that felt like committing a crime. He was waiting by the back door of _Tweek Bros_ , wearing a navy blue parka with the hood pulled up. He had a backpack with him, as well as a canvas tote that was emblazoned with the ' _Tweek Bros_ ' logo and completely undid whatever attempt he was making at hiding his identity.

   When he saw them, he retrieved another bag from inside -- another tote, this one labelled with the name of some Denver bookstore. Immediately, he handed this off to Craig, without making eye contact, and then walked right by him. It was extremely heavy, and Craig sagged under it's weight as he, in turn, handed it off to Clyde.

   "Come on," Tweek said over his shoulder, when he realised they weren't following along. He was heading in the opposite direction of the path, through the alley that ran along the backs of the buildings on this street.

   "What for?" Craig asked. Being here was making him fold in on himself, tense. He knew how quiet that alley could be. Tweek had taken him here before, so many times that Craig almost felt like it partially belonged to him, considering how much time they'd spent sitting on the concrete, drawing with chalk and occasionally making out. In hindsight, it seemed a little gross. This was where local businesses dumped their trash, where part-timers took their smoke breaks. It was owned by the roaches and the rats, and they could have it.

   "I just have to do one more thing before I go," Tweek explained, and Craig rolled his eyes, because didn't everyone?

   The sun was up, and beating down with something that might have been warmth, if not for the stinging breeze. Tweek led them behind the movie theatre, where there was nothing to see but an open dumpster and a few stray pigeons. Craig and Clyde hung back by the chain link fence, watching as he approached it.

   "Nngh." Tweek dug around in his tote bag, the contents making hollow, plastic clinking sounds. From inside, he produced an orange medicine bottle, and opened it with some difficulty, his hands shaking seemingly even more than usual. He dropped the cap on the ground. Then he drew his arm back and, with all the force he could muster, pitched the bottle at the open lid of the dumpster. It hit with a satisfying _clang_ , and pills sprayed everywhere.

   By the time Craig had registered what had just happened, Tweek was already reaching into his bag for another.

   Clyde was gaping, apparently speechless. The wind was ruffling his hair in a way that would have been incredibly distracting, if not for the circumstances.

   "Well," Craig said, his arms hanging limply by his sides. "This is awesome."  
  
   "Doesn't he need those?" Clyde asked. He'd taken a few steps away from the whole scene, and Craig followed suit. He wanted to be ready to bolt, if anyone came by.

   "I would assume, yeah," Craig said. It had been a long time since it had been his business, and he didn't miss that. He'd always been quietly shocked by the state of the medicine cabinet in the Tweak household.

   "Tweek!" Clyde said, raising his voice a little to get his attention - Tweek had found an empty bottle amongst the others, and was trying to crush it under his heel, stomping it over and over again. "What the hell are you doing?"

   "Something that should've been done a long time ago," Tweek replied through gritted teeth, kicking the remnants of the bottle away.

   He repeated the original process with three more bottles, tossing each with more anger than the last. Some of them were almost empty, and some completely full. Craig wondered if he should be filming this, but decided not to. Tweek had always hated being on camera.

   "Tweek," Craig said instead, crossing his arms. "I really think this is a bad idea."

   "Don't tell me what to do, Craig!" Tweek rounded on him, trembling, almost crazed. "I haven't been able to jerk off in three weeks!" he screamed, his voice cracking, and then he turned and threw what Craig assumed was the culprit into the dumpster with such might that the little pills inside showered out the top of the bottle like a firework, landing on the damp asphalt.

   "Okay," Craig said, blankly, because he couldn't argue with that.

   "Three weeks?" Clyde said, too low for Tweek to hear. He was still grunting, throwing pill bottles from his seemingly bottomless tote bag, not acknowledging them at all. "Holy shit."

   "Yeah," Craig agreed. He watched Tweek finally toss his empty _Tweek Bros_ bag into the dumpster, and then slam the lid closed with a clatter that made Craig wince, and Tweek recoil with a yelp. "I feel like I should be happier about it. Who doesn't want to hear that their ex has erectile dysfunction?"

   Clyde looked at him for several seconds, and then he said, "Probably a lot of people."

   Tweek returned red in the face and breathing heavily, but otherwise like his usual self. They fell into step leaving the alley, heading to Token's house, and Tweek bowed his head against the wind.

   "Are you okay?" Clyde asked, when Tweek had managed to catch his breath. Clyde had dutifully placed himself in the middle, and Craig was composing a text to Token that was far longer than it needed to be, to let him know they were on their way. Tweek was riding with them as far as Denver, and then he'd transfer to one of the vehicles that transported Moop's faceless roadies. Craig and Clyde would be picked up later, in the afternoon -- they still had to get their things.

   "Okay?" Tweek gave them a giddy smile from underneath his hood, and then turned his head up to the pale sky. "Shit, man! That felt so incredible!"

   "It did?" Clyde said.

   "Uh-huh. I think this is the best day of my life," Tweek said, with an actual skip in his step. Seconds later, he was trembling again, and biting at his nails.

   They were approaching Token's street. The van was there, as expected -- they'd done as much as they could with the refurbishing, though Token had hinted that there were a few surprises Craig hadn't seen yet. All he knew for sure was that they had water and power and shelter and Wi-Fi, and curtains on their bunks, and he was okay with that much alone.

   "You should've told us you were planning on doing that," Craig said. "Before we agreed to this."

   Tweek's smile faded, and he set his jaw. "Why do you care?"

   The gates opened for them, from some remote little security office that Craig had never personally been to. He didn't miss the guy with the pepper spray who used to hang around before it was built. They proceeded, Tweek hunching his shoulders. The van was there, the side door wide open; Craig thought he could hear voices coming from inside, but just faintly.

   "Because," Craig told him, "you're schizophrenic, is why."

   Tweek gave him a reproachful glare. Clyde was suddenly very interested in the pattern of the bricks, walking two paces behind.

   "What? You are."

   "I didn't ask for your opinion, Craig," he replied, shortly, and Craig scoffed at the idea that that was an _opinion_  and not a diagnosis he'd witnessed personally, and held Tweek as he shook in the aftermath of. But that was Tweek -- skittish or stubborn, with few in-betweens, and he knew how to dig his fucking heels. "Anyway. None of that medication did anything about the really, uh. Scary shit. It wont make a difference."

   Craig didn't know how to feel about that, so he just swallowed and said, "Oh."

   "Yup," said Tweek.

   "Well, you're right." Craig stayed on the driveway as Tweek took his blue bag from Clyde, and then clambered into the van, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. "It's not my problem."

   Tweek twitched in a way that Craig took as an agreement, and then he slammed the door in Craig's face.

 

  
-v-

 

  
   Clyde walked Craig home, and though it was really just an inevitable thing, Craig also felt like there was a gesture behind it somehow. They were dead silent, the insistent howl of the wind filling the gap in the conversation.

   "I think he knew what he was doing," Clyde said, when they reached Craig's door. They were hovering in a sort of uncertain limbo that Craig was very familiar with by now, where he was inside and Clyde was on his step, both of them unsure as to whether they were about to part ways.

   "What's with you always siding with other people?" Craig asked him, and looked Clyde over, from head to toe, in one calculating motion, as though the answer might be written on him somewhere.

   "I'm not siding with him. I just don't think you have to worry about-- anything."

   "You think I'm _worried_  about him?"

   In an instant, Clyde looked absolutely exhausted. Maybe he had all along. Tweek was pretty exhausting, Craig thought.

   "I don't know," Clyde said. "How should I know? You used to be in love with him."

   "That's news to me." Craig slammed the door shut, and then felt a wave of overwhelming guilt, so he wrenched it open immediately and found Clyde still standing there on the step, looking perturbed. "I'm sorry," he said, in the unaffected way he always did, which generally pissed people off, if they weren't Clyde. "It was a bad break-up."

   "That's news to me," Clyde echoed, which made Craig wish he'd kept the door closed. Back then, Craig had increasingly grown to see his relationship with Tweek to be a great schism between himself and the rest of his friends; it was something they never talked about, and none of them liked Tweek as much as he inexplicably had. Token and Jimmy always seemed uncomfortable with his eccentricities; Clyde mostly pitied him. Because of this, he neither gushed nor complained about Tweek to them or anyone else, and when things fell apart, Craig wrote four songs about it and promptly burned all of them, choosing instead to bury his head in the sand and let his friends draw their own conclusions.

   "Yeah, well." Craig looked past Clyde, over his shoulder, at the house across the street. Some kid lived there, and in the upper window Craig could see a line of toys on the sill; little figures of the Avengers on display for all the world to see. The kid had to be the same age as Craig was when he began his first and only long-term relationship, and the older he, himself, got, the more uneasy this made him. "It was a long time ago, and we haven't really spoken since then. I didn't expect it to go like that." Craig shifted his gaze down to his shoes. "Though, then again, maybe I did."

   "Huh," Clyde said. "Well. I'm sorry?" He paused. "This is all getting pretty dramatic," he said. "I'm not sure how to deal with these kinds of situations. Me and Bebe did things a lot differently."

   Craig knew that, and he didn't appreciate it having it pointed out. Surely Clyde knew how lucky he'd been. Bebe was a well-adjusted cheerleader; Tweek was made of glass and prone to shattering over and over again, no matter what Craig did, or didn't do.

   "Just, don't worry about it. All I care about is getting the hell out of here and making some music," Craig said, and meant it.

   Clyde left, and Craig could hear his mom rattling around in the kitchen, but he ignored her and went upstairs. His room was in disarray, his things half-unpacked, and he busied himself with putting everything back into his bags, rolling up pairs of jeans and socks and folding t-shirts into little squares that would crease horribly. He kept catching glimpses of himself in the mirror, and he noticed that he looked tired. He looked like shit, actually, with mussed hair and puffy under-eyes. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

   He'd be seeing Tweek again soon, and resolved to ignore him. He made sure to pack his headphones, as well as his video camera. At some point, he'd reached a stage where he didn't care what Tweek thought about him. In fact, Tweek's opinion now meant less than the average person's. Craig didn't know if this was normal, but it was convenient, and there was something liberating about it as well, to be so carefree in the face of someone he once combed his hair and wore cologne for.

   How ridiculous.

   Craig got down on his knees beside his bed, and fished out the guitar case that resided under it. Clouds of dust came with it, making him cough. He didn't bother to open it. Doing so might jump-start his brain and make him second-guess taking it, and he didn't want that -- what was the point in prized possessions, if all it did was live under his bed and gather dust? This beaten-up old guitar was like a good luck charm, and he'd need it now, more than ever.

   Craig left it on the floor, and wandered over to the window. Stormclouds stretched on towards the horizon, a great grey fog, and well, wasn't that a perfect summary of this place? Craig thought so. It was a fishbowl. A microcosm. Every bad thing in his life had happened here, and so had every good thing, and so it had achieved perfect neutrality.

   He did not want a life of perfect neutrality. 

   He stood and watched the clouds move for a long time, until there was a knock at his door and his mom stuck her head in. "Craig, hon? Your friends are here."

   Craig sighed after she'd left. He took his time saying goodbye to Spot for the second time in as many weeks, pointlessly checking her food and water, and then taking a short video of her snuffling around in her hay, for the road. Then he grabbed his bags and his guitar case and headed out into the hall, realising too late that he forgot to make his bed, but not caring enough to go back and do so.

   He lingered on the stairs, momentarily taken aback by the sight of his bandmates spilled all over his living room. Token was sitting in the armchair that usually belonged to Craig's dad, and Bebe and Clyde were on the couch, laughing at something on Bebe's phone. Clyde's bags were dumped by the door, and he had his guitar with him, resting between his legs. They all looked at home, in this place where they'd gathered periodically for their entire lives. Craig's mom had provided them all a can of Sprite -- he didn't realise he'd taken so long. Bebe sipped from hers. She'd pulled her hair into an intimidating ponytail and Craig felt that, though they were not Hollywood alien vegans who'd spent thousands on dental work, sitting here like this, they looked like a real band. They looked like a unit, he thought. Like a team.

   "You ready to go?" Token asked, though he didn't look like he was in a hurry. Ruby's cat, Mittens, had already found her way into his lap, curled up and purring. Token was scratching her head, apparently unfazed that he'd spend the rest of the day covered in fine grey hairs.

   "I was born ready," Craig said, surprising himself with his honesty. He hauled his backpack over his shoulder and made his way down the last few steps. Bebe smiled at him over her shoulder, and Mittens ran, hissing, from the room as he approached.

 


	4. the shelf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for emetophobia and canon-typical abuse/domestic violence.

   Craig felt obligated to give his mom a hug before he left the house. He embraced her in the front doorway, while behind him, his friends piled into the van that Token had left parked in the street, laughing amongst themselves at a joke Craig hadn't heard. She pulled him down by the shoulders for a kiss on the cheek, and he showed her a genuine smile, because his reasons to leave outweighed his reasons to stay, and she probably understood that.

   It wasn't until Craig closed the front door behind him that he realised that his parents had no idea where he was going. He climbed up into the van still smiling, and looked around. It still resembled a building site, in the sense that there was nothing in the way of decoration and the interior still smelled strongly of varnish, but it was much better than before. They -- by which Craig meant his dad and Ruby, as he had had no part in it -- had made two wooden benches that ran the length of the lounge area, as well as creating drawers underneath the two lowest bunks for storage, and crafting a dining area out of two more benches at different heights, which only seated two or three people and faced the wall, but which was better than nothing. The kitchen now boasted a stove that ran off of some sort of propane tank hidden in one of the counters, and an old microwave that used to belong to the Donovans. The curtains they'd chosen for the bunks were black. Craig had made the executive decision on this, and he was proud.

   It felt extremely cool to be there, and so as not to ruin his mood, Craig ignored Tweek, who was sitting in the living area with Bebe and Clyde and drinking from a thermos. Instead, he slipped through to the sleeping area and crawled directly onto his bunk, closing the curtain behind him. It was cramped, like a coffin, but in a good way. He could still hear every word from the others, and he shut his eyes. With quarters as close as these, he'd have to get used to it.

   "You know what I miss?" Bebe was saying as the engine sputtered to life. Craig was already feeling faintly nauseous as they pulled out of his street; probably just hungry, or nervous, or both. A nap sounded good, though maybe not feasible. "The cherry hot chocolate. When did that get discontinued? January?"

   "February," Tweek said. Craig could hear him drumming his fingers on the bench; it was echoey. "You-- you liked it?"

   Bebe laughed. "I was practically addicted to it! You think you could get your parents to put it on the menu for the whole year? It was _so_  good."

   "Mm... maybe. They might be mad at me. For leaving. I didn't tell them I was. I just left."

   "I hope you wrote a note or something," said Clyde, sounding wary, like maybe he was having second thoughts about the whole 'smuggling Tweek out of South Park in a touring van' thing. Craig, for his part, was trying not to think about what they'd done. He'd always found Tweek's parents strange, wan and quiet in a way that made them unpredictable; he had no idea what they would do to try to find their son, or if they would even try at all.

   "Of course I did. Otherwise they might have called the police!" They went over a pothole, and Tweek yelped.

   "Well, they have nothing to worry about. We'll take good care of you," Bebe told him, half-joking, but Craig heard Tweek exhale heavily, like he was genuinely relieved to hear it.

   Craig had earphones in his pocket and he decided that this was the time to use them. He plugged them into his phone, and scrolled through all of his music files, hoping to find some inspiration for the night ahead, though he was unsure of what he was expecting. He had a lot of tracks from bands that boasted legendary drummers, but none of them had really influenced him. He played mechanically; objectively. He was usually the last to provide input on any given song they wrote, which was kind of backwards, compared to other bands.

   Craig would have liked to say that he took up drumming in the first place because he was deeply inspired by the greats, or because it was something he bonded over with his dad, or even as some kind of anger management strategy. The truth was that he began taking drumming lessons because Clyde asked him to, which was really quite indicative of the shape of his entire life so far.

   By then, Clyde had acquired Rosie's predecessor, an unnamed off-brand electric in black with white detailing, and he was obsessed with it. He sang less, letting the strings speak for him. He had to be coaxed into vocally participating in shaky renditions of the songs they played together, and Craig knew he couldn't keep this up, practically begging him to sing because when he didn't, it started to feel less like a collaboration and more like Craig was just a witness, plucking at his shitty acoustic guitar in his rudimentary way. Clyde obediently went along with it, but got lost in the solos; Craig had started to tap out a beat with the heel of his hand on the body of his guitar, like a living metronome, whenever this happened. Clyde had stopped mid-strum one day and looked at him and said, "Hey. You know what would make this better?"

   Craig learned quickly and practiced avidly, annoying the shit out of his parents and making his sister resent him even more. His kit was set up in the garage and Clyde's amp lived there almost permanently. Craig felt he remembered everything about that summer. It had been oppressively, unbearably hot, but being locked in a hot garage with Clyde for all of those hours was just fine; Craig's palms were permanently damp and the trade-off was that he sometimes got to see a bead of sweat roll down Clyde's arm, which seemed like an incredibly sensual thing back then.

   That summer; a pot of half-eaten yogurt had festered on Craig's windowsill for two months, he read  _The Great Gatsby_ nude in bed one bright afternoon, Token got to second base with some girl Craig couldn't remember the name of, and right as August waned into September and the sleet started coming down, Craig had dumped Tweek quite unceremoniously, and sent the whole town into a state of depression for the second time.

  
-v-

  
   It felt like no time at all before Bebe came to see him, crawling onto his bunk and closing the curtain behind her. Craig was drowsy and just-awake, and he had to squeeze up against the wall to make room for both of them. He let his earphones fall from his ears and did his best to stretch in the confined space, blissfully unaware, in that post-nap way, of anything except for the fact that they were heading to Denver to change their lives.

   "Yikes," Bebe whispered. "Tweek? That's awkward."

   "I don't want to talk about Tweek." Craig had managed to contort himself to lay with his head on his pillow, his body at a diagonal and legs carefully folded to one side. Seemingly oblivious to his discomfort, Bebe stayed exactly where she was, with her legs tucked up and her arms around them.

   "He doesn't want to talk about you, either."

   "Good," Craig said. Then he yawned.

   "Anyway," Bebe said, seeming affronted, "I came to wake you up because we're here and nobody wants to carry your stuff."

   "Oh."

   They dismounted clumsily, into what looked like a private parking lot, already populated by a few black tour busses and white vans. Craig made sure to keep his distance from Tweek, who'd shed his coat now that they'd escaped the South Park weather and appeared to be shivering, staring at one of the wheels of a nearby van.

   Immediately they were greeted by a young woman who had a septum piercing and a headset, a combination that Craig found foreboding. She instructed them to unload their things, and stood there tapping at the screen of her phone with a stylus while they did.

   "I'm told this is your first time?" she said to Craig, while the others were behind the bus, adding the last of their things to the pile of cases that had developed on the asphalt.

   "We've done shows before," he told her.

   He wondered what their biggest audience was, to date; the South Park mall muddled the statistics slightly. When they played at other venues, the crowds were mostly rowdy, skinny teenagers, not much younger than them, obviously with fake IDs. Occasionally Craig wondered if the managers of those venues knew that they were underage, and let them in anyway, just to populate the place. Craig didn't judge them. Those same teenagers populated their social media too, mostly. This could be attributed, in Craig's view, to the fact that they ran in the same circles, on the same circuit, those kids hitting the same types of shows and _Craig and Those Guys_  repeatedly playing them. Bebe liaised with them often; she said most of them had bands of their own. Who could say how many of them were really fans?

   It wouldn't be like that this time. Tickets to see _Moop_ were not cheap. They would all be fans, though not Craig's fans, and he wondered what Moop fans were like. He imagined a colossal sea of screaming girls who resembled his sister, but the idea didn't sit right with him. He imagined a similar number of screaming rednecks and thought, maybe.

   "Right," she said, looking him over. "No road crew?"

   "He's our road crew," Craig said, gesturing towards Tweek, who seemed to be challenging himself to pick up as many drum cases as he could without dropping them all, shaking from head to toe as he did.

   "Oh dear," the woman said. "We'll have the headliners' people come for the rest of your things. They said you weren't quite... prepared."

   "We're prepared," Craig said, though it fell on deaf ears.

  
-v-

  
   But nothing could have prepared Craig for the sight of the arena. The moment they were led through those double doors, the world seemed to stop turning. The arena floor stretched on and on; the ceiling, high above, was night-black, white lights twinkling like distant stars. Craig felt like he was emerging from a life underground, afraid to stand under the sky lest he fall into it -- like something from _Lord of the Rings_. Like a tourist from a smaller world.

   Bebe gasped in wonder. Token swore. Craig was speechless, and all he could think was that he wanted to take a picture with a fisheye lens, to see how many of the countless seats he could fit into one image.

   "Oh, man, it's huge," Tweek said, shrinking back against the wall. "I mean, I knew it would be huge, but it's so much bigger in person! Oh my God!"

   "That's what she said," Clyde said, but distantly. He was staring up at the great screens that hung suspended over the arena floor. They were blank now, and people dressed in black were moving around underneath them, setting up rows and rows of folding chairs.

   "This," Craig said, "is so. Awesome."

   He took a step forward, expecting the sound to echo. It didn't; there was soft linoleum underfoot.

   "I think I'm having palpitations," Bebe said, resting a hand over her chest.

   "Me too," Tweek said.

   And the stage. Craig felt in deep awe of it, though it was actually not that large, compared to the arena as a whole. It was set up at one end, the end closest to them, and it was currently cluttered with various equipment and what looked like a lighting rig, still being worked on by technicians who didn't look up when they entered. Still, it was high up -- maybe five or six feet off the ground, and surrounded by barriers placed in a haphazard semi-circle around it.

   Craig could see the raised platform at the back, where Kenny's drum kit was already set up. He imagined sitting on that little stool, and wondered what he'd be able to see from there, and how many people would be able to see him.

   Their guide gave them a few seconds to take it in, and then she said, "Alright," and rolled her eyes, leading them over to one of the stands. "Take a seat. We have a lot to get done over the next few hours, and we're still waiting on Moop to arrive for their soundcheck. Someone'll be with you soon, I think there's water, coffee..." she trailed off, gesturing vaguely to her left, and then something came through on the radio pinned to her blouse and she strode off in the opposite direction, speaking into her headset.

   Clyde stayed standing and surveyed the arena, with his arms limp by his sides. "Dude," he said, still smiling. "Look at us. We're standing on the court."

   "Yeah." Token didn't sit down either, and let out a shaky breath. "Wow."

   Bebe did sit, and then produced drinks from her bag; bottled water for herself, and cans of Diet Coke for everyone else. Craig made himself as comfortable as he could beside her. Tweek dumped the drum cases he was carrying, and then took a seat three rows behind. Craig prickled at this, but didn't let it show. He could see the woman with the headset still, rounding up a small group of men dressed in black, and leading them towards the door they'd come in through.

   "Should we be helping with the chairs?" Craig asked as he took the drink Bebe offered him. The guy who was laying them out looked about seventy years old, and bored out of his mind; somebody's grandpa.

   "That's totally not our job," Bebe said, stretching. "Our job is to entertain people. All these people." Her eyes lit up as she scanned the rows and rows of seats. "I still can't believe it."

   "It feels wrong to just be sitting here," Craig said. "Like we think we're 'the talent' or something."

   Token snorted. "At least we showed up on time. Where do you think the guys are at?"

   "Don't call them 'the guys'."

   "Sorry," Token said, raising his eyebrows.

   "It's okay," Craig said. "Just, you know. I hate them."

   Silence fell; Craig reached for his phone, fighting the urge to turn around and see what Tweek was doing, or if he was even still there. The battery was almost dead, and there were no missed calls or texts waiting for him. He fished his charger from his bag, and held it for a few moments, unsure of what he'd planned to do with it. 

   "Do you think we have a dressing room, or anything?" he asked Bebe, both because he wanted to charge his phone and because he wanted to get as far away from Tweek as possible. There was something pulled taut between them that was impossible to ignore, the toxic overspill from their talk still present in the air. Craig could feel it, and he did not want to relive being thirteen again on what was maybe the most important day of this life so far.

   "I hope so." Bebe tapped her foot on the linoleum. "We kind of need to practice."

   "Yeah," Craig agreed. He'd been thinking the same thing; they'd all been so busy in South Park, there had been no time to get together and play any actual music.

   "You still know all the songs, right?" Clyde said, turning to Token.

   "No, I was just going to wing it." Token gave him a long look. "Of course I know all the songs. This band is like-- I'm serious about it, okay. Maybe more serious about it than any of you," he added, and then looked away, towards the stage. The lighting rig directly above it was being hauled by some sort of machinery, though Craig could see technicians working high up, near the ceiling.

   "We literally all quit our jobs for this," Bebe said, around a hairtie that she'd put between her teeth. She was gathering her hair into a ponytail, high on top of her head. "I had to refer all the kids I teach to some woman in Middle Park. I'm screwed if I have to go back."

   "My dad is pissed because he thinks I'm going to become a heroin addict," Clyde chipped in.

   Token stared. "He said that?"

   Clyde shrugged. "Remember how upset he was when I dropped out of school?"

   "Yeah," Token said, and Bebe nodded. Craig also remembered; his family had had the Donovans over for Thanksgiving, as they often had after Betsy's death, and that was where Clyde decided to break the news that he was failing everything except Spanish and had no intention of going back to CSU. The rest of the meal was tense, full of bickering and crying jags and failed peacemaking attempts on the part of Craig's mother.

   Craig, for his part, had eaten two full plates and felt better than he had in months. There had been a Clyde-shaped hole in his life since the end of the summer, and the prospect of having it filled again brought him a guilty sort of satisfaction, even if it meant knowing Clyde would be shelving his dreams of school and sports in favour of pulling shifts at the mall and returning to his childhood bedroom.

   "This is worse than that time." Clyde slumped down in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. "He didn't disown me or anything, I just think he thinks I'm going to like... die."

   "I wouldn't let you," Craig said, without thinking. Clyde looked at him, and blinked. "I mean-- we won't let... any of the rest of us die. Or get hurt, or whatever. We're going to look out for each other." This time he was unable to resist looking back over his shoulder at Tweek, sure that he was listening and laughing silently; in reality, Tweek had produced a book from somewhere and had his face buried in it, completely oblivious to their conversation. 

   "Do you mean like a buddy system?" Clyde asked. Craig didn't answer, and decided to revisit _Pet Rescue Saga_ to excuse himself from the conversation without physically getting up and leaving, which was what he really wanted to to.

   He could use the fresh air. The arena floor was drafty, the opposite of claustrophobic, but Craig still felt restless. Waiting seemed like the wrong thing to be doing. He checked the time. It was still only late afternoon; they'd been a little early, but Moop were undoubtedly late.

   "We're so going to prove your dad wrong," Bebe said, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "What are you going to buy with your first million dollars, Clyde?"

   "A million dollars isn't that much anymore," Clyde pointed out. He sighed, but took a minute to think about it. "I guess I've always wanted a Roomba."

   "Uh, why?" Bebe asked.

   Clyde shrugged. "I hate vacuuming."

   "Well, good news, Clyde," Token said, patting him on the back. "They cost a lot less than a million dollars." 

   "Really, though? You should get a butler or something," Bebe said. "Not just a Roomba."

   Decisively, Clyde crossed his arms. "If I ever make a million dollars, I'm not going to let anybody tell me what to do with it."

   "You wont be saying that when your girlfriend who's a Playboy model is asking you to buy her a second Cadillac," Bebe said. "Just saying."

   Clyde brightened at this. "You think I could get a girlfriend who's a Playboy model?"

   "Those girls are overrated. You know what _I_  want?" Token said, wistfully. "I can't wait to get my own place. Like a really cool apartment."

   "I want my own pool," Bebe said. "An indoor pool. And a boyfriend who's an actor."

   They all looked to Craig, who hesitated. He had always hoped he'd make his millions on a wildly successful animal-related television show, and then retire to Florida in his late twenties. But then Kenny McCormick had chosen Florida for himself, which had tainted the entire state in Craig's mind, because he wanted to do something unique, something people would talk about in line at Sooper Foods without finishing the sentence with "...just like Kenny McCormick."

   Maybe he'd move to France instead, or Tahiti, if he could somehow convince Clyde to come with him. He didn't want to be alone there, or surrounded by whatever the male equivalent of Playboy models was -- he'd rather be alone than endure that hollow fate. He could perfectly imagine himself in some white-painted airy Paris townhouse, eating by himself at a table set for eight, or sunning himself on a beach reserved only for him. He did not like these images, but he knew Clyde would never follow him across the globe. Why would he? Did he have aspirations beyond sitting in some South Park house, watching television while a Roomba trundled by? Craig was unsettled to find that this idea of a future, more than any of the others, appealed to him. He'd be content to spend his whole life on a couch with Clyde -- any couch, anywhere, and the million dollars would just be a bonus.

   Then Craig remembered that his bank account was completely empty, and they weren't even being paid for this tour, and Clyde sure as hell wasn't planning his future around what Craig wanted, and so the whole thing was pointless to even think about.

   Craig closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep, steady breath. "I want my future to not suck," he said, because it was all he could think of. "And I want to never have to work in the South Park mall."

   "God, yes. Here's to never working in the South Park mall," Bebe agreed. She raised her bottle of water in a toast. They all bumped their drinks together and then sipped from them.

   Afterwards, Clyde put his can of soda between his knees, balancing it carefully. "...I actually don't think I like girls whose boobs aren't real," he said slowly, as though he was just now realising this, and still processing it.

   "What if they were just enhanced?" Token suggested. Craig opened his eyes his in time to see him make a gesture with his hands that made Bebe scoff. "...Lifted?"

   Clyde looked sceptical. "I don't know what that entails."

   "Maybe you should just stick with the Roomba," Craig said, and then took another drink.

  
-v-

  
   They had a long wait ahead, and Craig's phone died after five minutes, the screen going suddenly black in his hand. He found himself drinking his soda just for something to do, and when he'd drained that he tapped his foot, matching the beat to each of their songs in turn before Clyde paused his conversation with Bebe to glance at him and say, "Quit bouncing your leg," and Craig did, immediately. He tipped his head back and considered going back to sleep. They were talking about merch again. The t-shirts they'd had made featured a vaguely triangular design, with the words 'Craig', 'and Those' and 'Guys' running up each side. Bebe had ordered one hundred of them. Craig could not imagine selling even one t-shirt with his own name on it; he'd certainly never wear the one Bebe had given him for free.

   In the end, he passed the time people-watching. He mostly watched Butters, who was hanging around. He was dressed all in black and had a little bit of a tan, but other than that, he didn't look any different than Craig remembered him. Slightly taller, maybe -- more toned in the arms, less fretful as he spoke to technicians and roadies, pausing to check his phone every few minutes.

   Moop finally made their appearance around the one hour mark, extremely late and extremely unapologetic about it. Craig could foresee the entire tour playing out like this; his band punctual and obedient while Moop slacked off and did whatever, and this seemed so daunting that Craig decided to ignore them for the duration of their soundcheck, focusing instead on counting the number of seats in the stand to the left of him. As he did, he tried to envision a person that each seat represented. It made him slightly nervous, but killed the time until Moop dismounted the stage and they were summoned over by Cartman, who was wearing sunglasses indoors and had apparently used gel to manipulate his hair into a messy-on-purpose arrangement that made him look like he was in middle school again. Craig smirked as he thought this, and he loomed at the back of their little group as they made their way over, ready to weaponise the observation as an insult if Cartman tried to bring him down.

   Cartman was standing on the third step, which made him good two inches taller than Craig, and another chunk more in relation to Token and Clyde. He looked down on them like he was presiding in court.

   "We need to have a little talk," Cartman said. His bandmates had wandered off, talking amongst themselves. It looked like they were bickering, though it was hard to tell; Kyle always seemed to be on the offensive, Craig thought. "I have been informed that you people did not come with a road crew."

   "Why would we have a road crew?" Token asked, a little pointedly. "We've been doing this for a long time. We know how our equipment works."

   Craig made a noise of agreement, pretending to check his nails. Out of the corner of his eye, he was still watching the rest of Moop. Butters had joined them with three bottles of water, and he passed them out with care. Craig stared openly as Kenny grabbed his, downed it, and then whipped his shirt off, zipping his parka up over his skinny bare chest. Craig swore he saw a glint of metal around his nipple region, but decided he didn't want to know.

   "Well, you're on the road now," Cartman said, crossing his arms over his considerable chest. "Generally you need people to like, get you coffee and do the lights or whatever, I don't know. I don't get involved with the little people."

   "No?" said Token.

   "I'm in this for the lifestyle," Cartman said.

   Craig observed Cartman's slightly-too-tight leather jacket and the bulky silver watch on his wrist that probably cost more than anything Craig owned, and nodded. "The lifestyle."

   "We have Tweek," Clyde said, and everyone looked at him. "He works for us. Except, we don't pay him."

   "Uh-huh." Critically, Cartman looked behind them, and Craig followed his gaze. Tweek was hovering about twenty feet back, shaking and staring up at the suspended screens with wide eyes, as though terrified they might fall down at any moment. "Yeah, no. I think you misheard me, I said road _crew_. Not road _wife_. Or, like, I don't know. Road coke dealer."

   Cartman waited for a reaction; Craig was determined not to give him one. He took a deep breath, and held it. The others followed his lead; even Clyde, though Craig got the impression that he may not have been listening.

   "I'm just saying, we need some professionalism around here," Cartman said, eventually. "I'm trying to help you guys not suck. Why are you so ungrateful? Jesus."

   Token gave a withering, fed-up-with-this shit look to Craig, who appreciated it. "Well, I guess we clearly need the help."

   "Yes," Cartman agreed. Then he barked, "Butters!", and snapped his fingers. Butters' head snapped up, alert, and he approached immediately, like a well-trained dog. "Show these freeloaders around and introduce them to the crew. Figure out some kind of light show that doesn't look like shit. And get Clyde a different shirt. This one is fucking obnoxious," he said.

   Then he stalked off, as Stan and Kenny came over, looking curious. Craig surveyed them carefully. Stan looked happy and unremarkable; Kenny looked exhausted and his jeans were stained with what looked like vomit, which made Craig take an involuntary step backwards as they came to a stop in the little half-circle they'd formed, not quite sure what to make of this.

   Clyde put his arms around himself protectively. Craig wanted to snarl at him sometimes, for being so openly vulnerable around people like Cartman, who took vulnerability as an invitation. But he never did. Though it was frustrating, the fact that Clyde could be genuinely wounded by the most petty insults got under Craig's skin in an entirely different way. His heart resided permanently on his sleeve. Craig felt sometimes like his own was shrivelled up and buried somewhere behind his stomach, but at moments like these, he knew that it was not.

   "I was going to get changed," Clyde mumbled, to nobody in particular. He was wearing a faded band shirt, _RAGING PUSSIES_  printed in white across his chest. He'd had it since high school, when it was too big for him. It fit much better now.

   "Is it just me, or has he gotten worse?" Token asked the group, glaring after Cartman as he left.

   "He's just hungover," Stan said. He scratched at the side of his face. Craig wondered if his idiotic facial hair was irritating his skin. "He can't handle all the bright lights and stuff right now."

   "Ha. Eric Cartman, complaining about being under the bright lights," said Craig. "I never thought I'd see the day."

   "Aw, well don't mind old Eric." Butters patted Clyde on the shoulder. "You all must be so excited!" He beamed, but then frowned, just as quickly. "I sure wish we had time to catch up, but we're on a real tight schedule here. We're running, maybe-- half an hour behind, you think, Stan?"

   Stan checked his watch, and Kenny promptly threw up over the side of the stage, holding onto his shoulder for support.

   Stan made a viscerally disgusted sound, looking like he wanted to back away, though he didn't, letting Kenny use him as a crutch as he retched again, and then coughed up the last of his watery puke.

   "Dude," Stan said, shaking his head.

   "Wow," Bebe said.

   "I'm so fucking hungover," said Kenny, by way of an explanation. As if anyone needed one, Craig thought. "God. The drive here almost actually killed me."

   "They took things a little far last night," Stan said, with a tight sort of smile.

   Kenny laughed drily, as though this was an understatement. This made Craig feel distinctly like a total fucking loser, having spent the previous day gossiping with his kid sister rather than drinking and partying.

   "Poor Kenny," Butters said, leaning over to rub his back. "You get it all out?"

   Kenny nodded. He was staring down at his puddle of puke; Craig was doing everything in his power _not_  to look at it, and wondered if they had some puke-cleaning roadie on duty nearby, ready to deal with this very incident.

   "So," Stan said, clearing his throat. "Anyway. What Cartman was trying to say is that Butters is going to be working with you for a while. We're kind of letting you borrow him."

   "You're giving us Butters?" Token raised an eyebrow.

   "Yeah, Butters is like a one-man road crew," Stan said. "It's pretty amazing. He can do everything."

   "So what do you hire all those other people for?" Clyde asked, looking around.

   "I said he can. Not that he does."

   "Oh, gosh, I can't do _everythin'_. I'd be running around like a headless chicken if it was just me workin', and you know it," Butters said, smiling down at his clipboard. "So I'm guessing you fellas have a set list all figured out, right? We should've been in contact sooner," he said, regretfully. "We have so much to talk about."

   "Uh," Token said, glancing to Craig with some concern. "Like what?"

   "Well, you've never played at a place like this before, right? That's why I'm here to help!" He poised his pen, ready to take notes. "Can you tell me a little bit about your stage presence?"

   "Yeah, we..." Token's gaze flicked from Craig, to Clyde, to Bebe, who shrugged. "We like to seem... friendly?"

   Craig laughed, though Token wasn't wrong. They were very friendly. Bebe, in particular, had a penchant for sitting down at the edge of the stage and chatting with the people in the front row in the middle of their set, and Clyde occasionally used his mic privileges to ask the crowd how they were doing that night. They'd never be intense like Moop were. Even when Bebe played the haunting bars of _Root Beer_  on her keyboard, her eyes were coy, like she and the audience were all in on something; Craig had seen clips on TV of Moop playing over the years and they displayed themselves like a great centrepiece, an act and sometimes a damn circus. Cartman's banter with the crowd seemed to focus primarily on showing off how witty and clever he was, and encouraging album sales. They didn't exactly come off as approachable.

   "Uh-huh." Butters wrote that down. "And what about your image?"

   "Um." That gave Token pause.

   "It's Bebe," Clyde said.

   "Bebe is your image?"

   "Yes." Clyde nodded. "Bebe is hot, is our image."

   "I see..." Butters scribbled something, and then looked up, expectant. "How do you feel about spotlights, Bebe?"

   "Favourably," Bebe said.

   "Mm- _hmm_..." Butters' pen left the paper with a flourish. "Neat-o! Now, I think we'd better get to making introductions. Stan and Kenny, I think they're waiting on you," he added, tactfully glancing down at his clipboard.

   "Cool," Stan said, departing. He stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Bebe?" he said. "Don't play that Root Beer song."

   "What?" Bebe's eyebrows approached her hairline. "What's wrong with it?"

   "Uh, it's about sex?"

   "Yeah, and? You write songs about sex."

   "We don't play them when there are going to be kids in the audience," Stan explained. "There's no age limit here."

   "Oh. Okay, no problem!" Bebe nodded thoughtfully. "We just have to rearrange our setlist. We can play _Leftovers_ instead."

   The temperature in the arena seemed to drop twenty degrees. Craig turned to her, perturbed, as Stan and Kenny wandered off.

   "I don't think so," he said. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears; too loud and too desperate to belong to him.

   "Craig, really?" Bebe looked him over. She seemed on the verge of being annoyed, and Craig could feel himself actually beginning to panic, because the last thing he wanted was for an argument to break out over fucking _Leftovers_ , of all things. "What else are we supposed to do?"

   Craig could feel Clyde watching him intently, curiously. That bothered him. He clenched his fists, digging his nails in, feeling exposed. "We can play another cover," he suggested with exasperation. "A Bowie cover? Everybody'll love that. Let's do _Heroes_ , it's like six minutes long."

   "I hate that song," Clyde said, shifting his weight. He looked concerned, like he thought Craig might bite his head off for saying so. Like he gave a shit about _Heroes_ , really.

   "And I hate _Leftovers_ ," said Craig, plainly.

   "Well, we're already playing two covers," Bebe said. "We're not a cover band! We have an original track and we have to use it."

   "Bebe's right," Token said. "It wont hurt to play all the songs we have."

   "We could make it a twenty-five minute set," Craig said, though it sounded pathetic. He knew when he was fighting a losing battle, but the gnawing sensation that was developing in his gut did not let up.

   "What is your problem?" Bebe asked. "It's a great song. Everyone loves that song! People will go home tonight and buy _Leftovers_  on Bandcamp, because it's catchy, and, like, relatable. It's the next best thing after _Root Beer_. And unless you can write another song in the next ten minutes, it's all we have."

   Craig could not write another song in the next ten minutes. He hadn't written a song since he was sixteen years old. It was their greatest weakness, as a band; songs coming together was an event that came few and far between, and the longer these dry spells lasted, the more Craig worried that this was because they had nothing meaningful to say, and never would.

   Clyde patted his back a little too hard for it to be comforting. "Don't be shy, man," he said. "It's a good song."

   Craig closed his eyes for a moment. Inhaled. Exhaled. Then he said, "Okay."

   "Okay?"

   "Okay!" Butters exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Well, then, Bebe, can I borrow you for a sec? I had some ideas I wanted to run by you, and our lighting gal is just back there..."

   They left, chattering, and Craig helped with lifting Moop's equipment away and with setting up their own. Moop themselves were now nowhere to be seen, probably commiserating in their dressing room over whose Rolex was the fanciest. Craig was too busy screwing cymbals into place to really care. He kept getting distracted by Clyde, who was sitting at the edge of the stage and plucking away at Rosie, doing warm-up exercises that Craig had taught him once; hitting every string, then every second string, up and down and up and down. He was unplugged, so they were spared the sound of it; Token was crouched nearby with Tweek, trying to explain how amps worked, and when Bebe returned, Craig was solicited to help her set up her keyboard stand, which was ancient and sometimes fell down during shows.

   He hoped it would fall down during _Leftovers_. That song was a bad memory, the only one he'd ever penned himself. In sophomore year he'd scribbled the lyrics out during a particularly boring detention, the title twice underlined at the top of the page and obnoxiously capitalized: LEFTOVERS. It was around Thanksgiving time, the ice thick on the windows and the sky dark too often, and Craig had been coming to terms with never being Clyde's first anything, because Bebe had asked him out and he'd said yes to her, like any sane man would.

   It was a rambling mess of a song. Craig wrote with his face inches from the paper, scrawling out a ballad that ended with a verse about how leftovers were still pretty okay, if you put the next day's cold turkey in a sandwich and drizzled some gravy on the inside. The only reason anyone kept leftovers in the first place was because the food was still good and edible. Sometimes a night in the fridge did wonders. This was what Craig told himself, during that detention, through his songwriting, and it left him feeling marginally better in the end.

   In hindsight, the metaphor was confusing -- clearly Clyde was the turkey, not only because Craig thought he was delicious, but also in that his body had always been sort of fleshy and pink but was now tanned and refined by that magic in the long summer months after their freshman year of high school. This magic didn't touch everyone. Still as uninspiring and pale as ever, Craig could see himself being the bread, but Bebe? Craig didn't care enough about making the song work to figure that one out. She could have been the chef, he supposed, because she was ambitious and talented. Or the oven, because she was, by anyone's testimony, hot. Or a dinner guest. Or the gravy. Maybe he'd been subconsciously propositioning the two of them for a threesome with his song, and he didn't even know it. Was that the kind of music he wanted to make with _Craig and Those Guys_? Back then, they had nothing, no vibe or style of their own -- it would've been a trademark if nothing else.

   It didn't matter. Bebe found the song months later when the crumpled up piece of paper fell out of Craig's locker and directly at her feet. He didn't think anything of it, until she unfurled and read it and exclaimed, "I didn't know you wrote _songs_ , Craig!"

   "I didn't write that," Craig said automatically, even though Bebe probably recognised his handwriting. She was one of the few in the world who could read it; this was a quality that made it stand out from most people's.

   She ignored him. "This is really good!" she gushed, leaning against the locker next to his as she continued to scan the page. "We should all play it together later, what do you think? Do you want to sing it or should I? Or should Clyde?"

   The thought of Clyde singing _Leftovers_  made Craig feel faintly ill. "I don't think it's that good."

   "You know how he loves Thanksgiving," Bebe said, her cheery tone implying that she was agreeing with something he hadn't actually said. She folded the paper in half and pocketed it.

   At practice that evening, Craig had to sing _Leftovers_  twice, to convey the tune in his head to Bebe and Clyde, with Clyde accompanying vaguely on guitar and Token doing the same, plucking experimentally at the strings of his own. Bebe didn't force him at gunpoint, but she might as well have; as soon as she walked into Craig's garage and saw the three of them already assembled, she whipped those pencilled lyrics out and announced that Craig had written the band's first ever original song, and she was bouncing in place as she did, meaning Craig would look like the world's biggest asshole if he refused to to participate.

   So he did participate, his untrained and unappealing voice cracking on every other word, and then Bebe said, "Yeah, that's _definitely_  a Clyde song," and had no idea how accurate she really was.

   "It has an energy," Token said, as if this meant something.

   "Okay," Clyde agreed. "Let me try."

   It turned out that Craig's second and final rendition felt worse, Clyde singing along with him. Back then Clyde's vocals had been somewhat raw and untrained too, but he had the passion Craig so desperately lacked. He closed his eyes and he nodded along, and he drew out notes Craig would never even attempt when other humans were in a 500 mile radius -- and he made them work. For all his fumbling and softness, Clyde was Michaelangelo when it came to music. In his hands, he took Craig's crummy heartbroken chunk of marble, and carved from it the _Leftovers_  that sat proudly on their Bandcamp page years later, a permanent and lingering reminder of how dumb Craig was when he was sixteen, and the fact that not much had even really changed since then.

   Craig had a lot of problems with the way the demo had ended up. He could imagine what reviews would say: that it veered too wildly between Bebe and Clyde's vocals with too few neutralizing duets. The bass was screechy due to a mixing issue, and _Root Beer_  was borderline pornographic, despite their relatively mellow sound. On one track, you could hear a car pass by in the background, and Craig had said a hundred times that this was unacceptable, but he was outvoted by the others, who thought it was 'genuine' and potentially endearing.

   What they'd produced so far was probably, objectively, kind of shitty. But none of these shitty aspects compared to how messed up it was, to hear Clyde singing _Leftovers_  with all the self-awareness he usually had, which was little. It always brought back the overload from that first time, the sinking dread and ache and bubbling jealousy, when his palms sweat so much his drumsticks began to slip, and he grit his teeth and wished Clyde had never invited Bebe to the band, and that they'd never discovered Token's weird affinity for the bass guitar, and that it was just the two of them again, and that he never found a reason to write a song called "Leftovers".

   Thankfully, the song did not rear its ugly, juvenile head during the soundcheck. Craig had no idea if they sounded any good or not -- it was too echoey to really tell, but they were getting persistent thumbs-ups from technicians, and also Butters, who was watching them intently from the front row of folding chairs, chewing on the end of his pen.

   "You sure are confident," Butters said, when they dismounted from the stage and came to sit beside him. "I get a genuine sort of vibe from you, you know? Nothin' flashy, but the music stands on its own."

   "Thank you," Bebe said, smiling to herself. Craig wondered when Butters had become the expert on this sort of thing, but what did he know? Butters was in the industry now. He was a professional, and apparently Craig had been wrong about him only driving a van.

   "So the doors open at seven, and you'll be on at eight," Butters said. "And, hey-- I love the tattoos!" he said, abruptly sort of grabbing Bebe's arm. She allowed it, though Craig had seen her slap people's hands away before. "Wow! Say, I was thinkin' about getting some myself. Did they hurt?"

   "Like a bitch," Bebe said, proudly. "But it's worth it. Just make sure someone's there to hold your hand, or its worse," she added, which made Butters smile.

   "I'll bet." Butters leaned in like he was telling a secret, but his murmur was loud enough for everyone to hear. "The fellas don't have any tattoos. Can you believe that?"

   "Yes," said Craig, smirking. Kenny was almost certainly the only one who could endure it, and apparently he preferred having needles shoved through his skin.

   By the time he was finished having that thought, Craig was no longer smirking.

  
-v-

 

   Clyde ripped his shirt off the moment he was inside the tour bus, tossing it, discarded, onto his bunk.

   Craig decided that the circumstances of this day were exceptional, and so he allowed himself to look directly at Clyde's back for as long as he could. It was a beautiful back. Clyde had effortlessly smooth skin, and it was most evident on this great expanse of it; there were no flaws across the peaks of his shoulderblades, or down towards the little creases at both sides of his lower back for which 'flab' was too crude of a word, but which, Craig was sure, undeniably came from his drinking and inability to kick his Taco Bell habit.

   "So, hey," Clyde said, as they all reached for their bags and began to look out a change of clothes. It was strange to do it in such tight quarters, and it was dawning on Craig that they had no full-length mirror; only the small one at eye-level above the toilet. "I think we need to have a discussion."

   Craig's heart stopped momentarily, and he turned, sure Clyde would be staring him down, ready to interrogate him about what had happened that morning, with Tweek. But Clyde was addressing all of them by virtue of addressing none of them; he was looking in the general direction of his own bunk as he pulled on a different shirt, almost elbowing Craig in the process.

   "We've got to talk about the elephant in the room," Clyde said. "What is the protocol for jacking off?"

   Silence seemed to ring out, though in reality it was only for a beat, during which Token sighed and Craig looked away, feeling his heartbeat pick up. He hated it when Clyde talked about jacking off, which was much less often now that they weren't in school. He had always been oblivious to the fact that Craig would never be rid of the mental images that those conversations placed in his head, and Craig had no plans to share this dilemma with him.

   "Are you serious?" Bebe said eventually.

   "We were all thinking it," Clyde said, and shrugged. "So I'm saying it."

   "The protocol is 'don't'," said Token. He looked annoyed that Clyde had even asked. "We'll be stopping at hotels and everything, so just... wait it out."

   "Is that reasonable?" Craig wondered aloud. They'd only be getting rooms every once in a while, for the luxury of long showers and a little privacy. And even then, he assumed he'd be stuck sharing a twin room with Bebe again, which was no privacy at all. Bebe didn't grow up with siblings -- she never learned to knock.

   "Yes, it's reasonable!" Token said. "We have a lady on board, Jesus. What's the matter with you guys?"  

   "Yeah, seriously," Bebe said. She looked smug about it, Craig thought, though maybe it was just his imagination. "Keep it in your pants."

   There was a pause.

   "To be clear--" Clyde began.

   " _To be clear_ ," Bebe said, "it's not okay to masturbate in communal areas even if your dick doesn't physically leave the confines of your pants, Clyde."

   "Okay. That was all I wanted to know."

   "Is the bathroom a communal area?" Craig asked.

   "Oh," said Bebe. She looked up at the ceiling. "Hmm."

   "I would argue that it's not," Clyde said immediately.

   "Me too," Craig said, though he wasn't sure. The 'bathroom' was basically a glorified closet, and Craig doubted it was exactly soundproof. He could envision a potentially excruciating circumstance, where these alternate uses for the bathroom would be broadcast to the entire bus and so Craig would be forced to listen each time Clyde sought relief, and then he would be forced to dart in there right after him, and maybe this would become a noticeable pattern. Maybe that was the kind of mutual embarrassment they'd never come back from. "Actually," Craig said. "Nevermind. I don't know what to think."

   "Hey," said Token, turning around. "It's my bus, and my rules. And I say no jacking it _anywhere_ , final verdict. I like you guys, but we need to have some distance here. Like, personal space. Let's keep some things to ourselves, okay?"

   "That's going to come back and bite you in the ass, Token," Craig said, though distractedly, because he was starting to realise that he didn't have any clothes that he was sure he wanted thousands of people to see him wear, and that seemed more important than anything else.

   Sometimes Craig wished he didn't care about these things. Stan Marsh, for example, dressed vaguely like he got lost in the local GAP after dark and hadn't bothered to change once he was eventually recovered by the authorities. Eric Cartman dressed like he'd gotten lost in the depths of Los Angeles, which Craig supposed he actually had. Kyle Broflovski dressed like some kind of teacher, but in a way that was currently fashionable. Craig scowled down at the pile clothes on his bed. Why compare himself to them? He wasn't some pretentious dick. He was Craig Tucker -- there was no pretending otherwise.

   "What are you guys wearing?" he asked, over his shoulder.

   He wasn't the only one still getting dressed. Clyde had changed his t-shirt in favour of a plain grey one, and then added his letter jacket on top, but he was holding a white button-down up against himself and frowning at it. Bebe looked exactly the same and was working on downing her second glass of lukewarm water in the kitchenette; she hadn't yet done her make-up, Craig noticed, and he assumed it was because she didn't want to smear her lipstick. Token was shirtless and rooting through his bag. All his clothes were neatly folded, and Craig took that in for a moment before staring back down at the Armageddon of his own backpack, wondering if he should bother.

   "Should I wear a button-down shirt?" Token asked, pulling out an expensive-looking plum-coloured one.

   "I think only one of us should wear a button-down shirt," Craig said, glancing to Clyde. He'd shed his jacket, but stopped there, hesitating. "I don't want it to look like we're going to a wedding or something."

   "You know," Clyde said with a sigh, "we really should've planned this."

   "I didn't bring that many clothes," said Token. "Let me wear the button-down."

   "Open collar," Craig said, in a warning tone.

   "Obviously." Token raised his eyebrows. "Working in that store really rubbed off on you, huh?"

   "We sold shoes, okay, not clothes." But Craig closed his eyes for a moment, because it was actually kind of true. He had a knack for co-ordination, though his own sense of style could only be described as 'minimalist'. At the same time it annoyed him that either of those words applied to his life in any way.

   Clyde put his jacket on again, and Token started buttoning his shirt, and Craig stared down at the mess of clothes he'd created, no closer to choosing something than he had been at the start of this conversation.

   "If it's anything, I don't think anyone will be looking at you," Bebe said, as she squeezed by them on her way to the bathroom. She'd taken her hair down, as she usually did before they got on stage, and she had her makeup bag in hand. Craig noticed that she'd changed into a pair of denim shorts that looked risky, like they might ride up at any moment, as well as a tank top, an unbuttoned red flannel shirt, and sneakers.

   Craig nodded to himself, then picked out black jeans and a white t-shirt. Then he remembered that he'd probably sweat, so he swapped the white t-shirt for a black one. Then he looked down at himself and realised he looked like a roadie. He put the white t-shirt on again and then haphazardly threw all of his other clothes back into his backpack, pushing them down hard before zipping it up with effort.

   He sat down heavily on his bunk, and realised with dismay that he hadn't eaten since breakfast and now felt too ill to even consider breaking into the packs of Cheesy Poofs and Lunchables they'd brought along. He'd be running on adrenaline all night.

   "What's wrong?" Clyde asked, sitting down beside him. Token was watching from the corner of his eye, spraying cologne; Craig considered this a waste of time, knowing how gross they'd get later, but didn't comment. They all had their little rituals to keep the anxiety at bay.

   "It's just nerves," Craig said, because there was no use trying to hide it from Clyde. For someone who was usually wildly insensitive, he always noticed when Craig went quiet. "Let's order a pizza after this."

   Clyde smiled in a slightly confused way, like he wasn't sure how those two things were connected, but he gave Craig a pat on the back and when Bebe returned, they began the trek back to their dressing room. Ahead of them, low on the horizon, the sun began to set.

  
-v-

  
   Backstage turned out to be Craig's greatest paradise and his worst nightmare. The arena was filling up and nobody was stopping them from peeking out through the doors that led to the cordoned-off area through which they would pass to get up on the stage, so they did, several times a minute. Roadies were constantly going in and out, adjusting mic stands and checking amps, everyone acting like they had a place to be. There were journalists, too; mostly primly-dressed young girls with passes around their necks, and bearded guys with huge cameras, each one more smug than the next. Somebody snapped a picture of them, but ran off before Craig could ask what magazine they were with.

   Somehow it had become hot -- baking hot, like steam radiated from the walls, or maybe Craig was just boiling from the inside. He couldn't tell. He kept wiping at his forehead, finding it damp. The air felt stale and recycled in the heart of the building, and the arena seemed so much more liberating by comparison. He wouldn't mind sharing his air with thousands of other people in that wide open space, feeling the lights beam down scorching. It was so close to being a reality that he was aching for it.

   Craig was told to record Bebe while she explained where they were and how excited she was; the nervous energy was hitting a peak, and was expressed in a level of physical contact Craig had never actually shared with his friends before. Bebe was giving out hugs and grabbing hands whenever she felt like it; she was also giving out her contact number to everyone who stopped to speak to them, though most of those people were asking for directions to Moop's dressing room. 

   The most surprising thing was that Moop seemed to have invited everyone they knew. Mrs Cartman was there, in a side room with the door propped open, standing watch over a table laid out with plates of triangular sandwiches and cupcakes and brownies that she had clearly made, and which the crew helped themselves to with abandon. Craig even saw Randy Marsh ambling around, beer in hand. Moop themselves didn't show their faces; they were still holed up in their dressing room, Craig assumed, doing interviews or cocaine or possibly both.

    _Craig and those Guys_  had been led to a dressing room of their own, and they'd spent half an hour or so going through their set, practicing, Craig using a chair as a makeshift drum kit. As showtime drew closer, it became too claustrophobic; it was just a little box, with no windows. So they lingered in the hallway and peeked through the doors, and Clyde ate three of Mrs Cartman's brownies, and then somebody said, "you're on in five."

   "Wait," Craig said, surprising himself. Another pack of roadies came through the doors, and through the crack Craig could see layers and layers of people in the stands. It was insane to think they'd all be looking down on him, like the Colosseum. He was used to the opposite, and his stomach lurched at the thought.

   Without a word, he turned and started walking down the corridor, away from the stage doors.

   "Hey," Token said. "Don't bail."

   Craig waved it off in a way he hoped communicated that he would not bail. He couldn't speak; he would definitely throw up on his shoes if he spoke, but he was also reluctant to break into a run, so he allowed himself a strange sort of shuffle-y-walking pace until he reached an unlocked staff bathroom, threw open the first stall, and vomited into the toilet with his eyes wide open, not quite believing it.

   He hadn't thrown up before a show since their first, when they'd been conscripted to play at someone's birthday party, senior year. It was inconspicuous then, because by the time they finally ascended the makeshift stage, quite a few people had already thrown up, including Clyde. It had given his voice a sort of rough, raw quality while he sang, appealing if you didn't know the origins.

   Craig found out later that Clyde had cleaned his mouth with a used toothbrush he found, and Craig had spent the remainder of the evening after their set crouched on this person's porch steps, head in his hands, wondering how this had happened. How was his heart firmly in the possession of someone who used other people's toothbrushes? Before leaving, Craig had gone upstairs and trashed all of the toothbrushes he could find, fearing that Clyde might have actually returned the one he used without even thinking twice about it. This family would maybe always wonder what happened to their toothbrushes after that house party, but Craig had done them all a favour. He was a saint, that way.

   While he was reminiscing about this, the bathroom door clattered open and Craig caught a glimpse of someone's knees hitting the floor of the stall beside his before they, too, began to retch. Craig squeezed his eyes shut, sent dizzy again by the sound. He spit into the toilet a few times before reaching for paper to wipe his face clean. He'd had nothing of substance to regurgitate, but there was drool down his chin, and his eyes had watered.

   Then, he shifted so that his back was against the stall door, and took a moment to himself, trying to block out the sound of someone puking their lunch up about a foot away from him. Probably some roadie on drugs. He felt instantly stupid for jumping to this conclusion, as someone who didn't really have roadies and had never really done drugs. Were they even allowed? Craig had no idea.

   He stepped out of his stall at the exact same time as the person next to him, and they stared at each other in the mirror for one long moment, perturbed.

   "Stan Marsh," Craig said, pointlessly. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling self conscious. Stan was wearing a navy blue t-shirt, and he had dark arm hair, and his Florida tan. Craig looked away, annoyed by all of these things. He was starting to feel extremely pale in comparison to everyone else.

   "Hey," Stan said. He went forward to wash his hands. Craig did the same. He still had a horribly acidic taste lingering in his mouth and he was tempted to slurp tapwater from his cupped palms, like some kind of desert refugee, but he couldn't, with Stan Marsh watching. "How was your week in town?"

   "Fine," Craig said. He made a genuine effort at dredging up some memory that he could relay, but what was there? Bickering with his little sister? Visiting the grave of a dog who'd been in the ground for a decade? His reunion with Tweek? Stan would find that hilarious -- the thought was almost painful. "We fixed up our van."

   "Cool," Stan said. "What was wrong with it?"

    _Everything_ , Craig thought, but he didn't want to say so. "It just wasn't something we could live in. But it is now."

   "Yeah, that's important. We pretty much lived in our van on our first tour." He smiled to himself, clearly reliving some kind of memory. Craig tried not to think about the fact that while Moop had been on their first North American tour, he had mostly just been in bed eating dry cereal and watching _Sixteen and Pregnant_ , not even back to his tedious shifts at the shoe store yet. "We actually stayed at the Four Seasons the past few nights. And tonight, too, I guess, but we're having an afterparty and everything. You guys are invited."

   "Will you be there?"

   Craig didn't mean to phrase this so snidely, as if he might not turn up if Stan had the audacity to go to his own afterparty, but that was how it came out, and the few beats of silence afterwards were excruciating. Craig focused on scrubbing the spaces between his fingers, eradicating any and all bacteria that may have settled there from the toilet bowl he'd just been hugging.

   "Yeah," Stan said. "Of course I will."

   "Well," Craig said, realising with dismay that there were no electric hand-driers and no paper towels in the dispenser. Awkwardly, he shook his hands dry over the sink instead. Water droplets spattered the mirror. "I guess I'll go."

   Stan snorted. "I knew you would. You used to go to like, every party."

   "Yeah, you know me," Craig said. "Always out and about."

   "Ha, yeah." Stan dried his hands on his jeans, which looked incredibly soft, to Craig's mild irritation. "Are you nervous about playing?"

   Craig only stared at him.

   "I still get really nervous," Stan elaborated, without being prompted to. He was looking down at the floor, at his shoes. He was wearing Oxfords, though Craig assumed the leather was fake. "It's weird, because I don't even really have to do anything. Cartman's the one who gets up and sings in front of all those people. And like, talks to them. But it's crazy." He shook his head. Craig began to get antsy, because his hands were still pretty wet, and he was worried that this might devolve into Stan Marsh's entire life story, here in this bathroom they both just threw up in. "I don't think we ever had an audience this big before. Except maybe Coachella that year... I think we had a tent or something? But I don't really remember."

   "You don't really remember," Craig repeated. He gave up, dabbing his at damp hands with his white shirt, leaving splotches behind

   "What?"

   "Nothing," Craig said. "I didn't know you played festivals."

   "Well," Stan said. "Not anymore."

   "Not anymore?" Craig asked, though he wasn't really interested.

   "I don't really want to talk about it," Stan said, finally meeting Craig's eyes in the mirror. Craig hadn't meant for that to happen, and he looked away, at a loss for what to say, afraid that any response might prompt Stan to change his mind and go into the finer details of management or profit or whatever had factored into that decision.

   "You brought it up," was what he eventually settled on.

   "So? I brought it up because we were just talking about audiences and--" Stan stopped, exasperated. "You know what, Craig? You really haven't changed at all."

   Craig looked him over, seething. _Change isn't always positive_ , he wanted to say, but he didn't, because he was feeling sort of wounded, and there was no way he was capable of putting as much resentment behind those words as he wanted to.

   Someone threw the door open, and momentarily Craig closed his eyes and prayed to every god he could think of that it would be Clyde standing there, here to rescue him from this fucking conversation. Clyde, ready to take his side against Stan with his Coachella and his Four Seasons and his complete inability to register when the people in his presence did not care about whatever he was talking about.

   But of course, it was not Clyde. It was in fact Kyle, because fate did not smile upon Craig and never had. 

   "Stan?" 

   He cast around with urgency, and then seemed to register who he'd almost run right into. He had wild eyes and wild hair, clearly not styled yet; curls everywhere. "Oh. Hey." He glanced at Craig, and then frowned, apparently deigning not to comment on his presence and looking to Stan again. "You got sick?"

   "Just a little." Stan gave him a queasy sort of smile. "Dude, there's already like five thousand people out there and it's not even full."

   Craig's stomach lurched again. He felt like he was shaking, if not physically then at least emotionally. It was a strange thing. He had no conscious fear, just a sense of general unease, and he knew it would slip from him like a cloak as soon as Clyde played that first chord and the music took over. But still it remained, this anxiety, hanging over him.

   "I know," Kyle said. He looked at Craig again in a strange, pointed way. "I think they're about to turn the lights down."

   Craig knew they wouldn't turn the lights down until he was there and ready to go, but he left anyway, without so much as glancing back over his shoulder. Why would he stay? In a way, he was still annoyed with them both for showing up late. During the excruciating wait after their soundcheck, Butters had mentioned that it was because they were out to lunch. Token had rolled his eyes and said, "Aren't they always?" and Craig had felt very, very grateful that he'd gravitated towards the right people back in elementary school.

   They were still hanging around in the corridor, and he resumed his place next to Bebe, leaning against the wall.

   "Do you think I've changed?" he said to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Clyde watch a girl roadie who was lingering further up the hallway, chewing gum and fiddling with her phone. She was blonde; bleached, platinum. A hair colour Craig had never approved of.

   "What?" Bebe said. She was tapping her foot on the ground, shifting her weight, impatient.

   "Like, ever," Craig said, hating the desperate edge to his voice. His anxiety was rapidly turning to panic, and at the worst time. Thousands of people were waiting for him. He could hear them.

   "What would you want to change for?" Clyde asked, glancing at him. Craig hadn't noticed that he was listening, and he swallowed thickly. He hated to lose his cool in front of Clyde, more than maybe anyone else -- more than thousands of strangers, even. He couldn't remember the last time it had happened. Trying to made his pulse skyrocket.

   "I don't know," he said. His train of thought seemed to stutter. "Aren't people supposed to change?

   Clyde frowned at him; Bebe was no longer paying attention, engrossed in replying to a text message.

   They waited another minute. Time passed slowly; Craig's palms became damp. Then someone dressed in black approached and said, "let's go", and before Craig had even fully registered what that meant he found himself being pulled into a crushing hug by Bebe before he was ushered along, through those doors for real this time, and he kept staring at the little curl of hair at the nape of Clyde's neck in front of him, and trying not to think too hard about where he was going.

   The doors opened. Craig seemed to glide through them. The lights were down, and the crowd had started to rumble, excited for some action. Craig tripped on the stairs and Token pulled him up by the hand, laughing; Craig's heart seemed to stop when he realised he could not hear him, because Bebe had just run onto the stage opened with the word "Denver!" and the crowd was screaming their unanimous approval.

   Craig hurried to cross the stage. His kit was situated up another set of stairs, on a little platform, and he was glad the the lights partly blinded him. It was an isolated place to be. It wasn't like some shows he'd been to, where there were five other people up on stage with the band; it was really just the four of them, with Craig tucked away at the very back, as was his preference.

   "How are you all doing tonight?" Clyde said, into his microphone, and they screamed again.

   "We're _Craig and Those Guys_ ," Bebe said. "And we're from a little town called South Park, Colorado... Maybe you've heard of it?" 

   More screaming; Craig could see Randy Marsh down by the barriers, yelling his support for South Park Colorado. He could not see any children, but maybe that because they weren't allowed to be close to the stage. His thoughts raced and spun, and his grip tightened on his drumsticks. His chest had become incredibly tight. He loved the fact that he could see all three of his bandmates clearly; he always did. He wished he could catch it on film. The backs of Clyde and Bebe and Token, and the great sea of people before them, growing hushed now as they prepared to begin their set.

   Craig stopped breathing, and attempted to stop thinking. It would start on Clyde's signal, and sure enough that single chord rung out a moment later and Craig was swelling with pride and energy and a giddy excitement that felt surreal, almost disembodied from him, but he channelled all of it that he could grab hold of into the dramatic drum intro of this song, and every beat came back at him so fucking loud, deafeningly loud in a way that made him soar, and in his pocket, his phone began to vibrate, over and over again.

  
-v-

  
   When the show was over, Craig's t-shirt was sticking to him, which was disgusting. Kenny was going to sit on that stool and slip right off from how sweaty he'd gotten, but Craig couldn't care less about that as he was escorted back to the dressing room by Butters, who was saying nice things that Craig literally could not hear, his ears were ringing so badly. Everything became a blur. One moment he was following Bebe off stage, and the next he was collapsed in an uncomfortable chair in their boxy little dressing room and Bebe and Clyde were struggling to speak into the receiver of Bebe's cellphone at the same time, both of them grinning like idiots.

   "We just played the Pepsi Center!" Bebe was saying -- yelling -- and Token laughed, weakly, from where he was situated in the corner, his guitar still at his waist, on its strap. "And it was all thanks to you, you total dick! Go fuck yourself!"

   "Fuck you," Clyde agreed. "Fuck you really, really hard."

   Craig watched in a daze as they all went silent, waiting for a response that came through on crackly loudspeaker.

   "Who is this?"

   "You know who it is, asshole," Bebe said. "How's Connecticut treating you?"

   Silence.

   "Yeah," Clyde said. "He knows who it is."

   "Look," Thad said. "I don't know why you think it's okay to call me like this--"

   Impulsively, Craig gestured for the phone to be passed to him. It was, Clyde and Bebe snickering like schoolkids, and Craig put the receiver to his mouth and said, "Your basslines are unoriginal, and no one will ever love you."

   More silence. Then the line went dead.

   "Gosh," Butters said, and Craig startled. Butters had been standing in the doorway the whole time, unnoticed. He was frowning now, looking concerned. "Who was that?"

   "Nobody. He was a total nobody," Bebe said, grinning.

   "Oh, well -- they sure loved you out there!" Butters looked proud, though Craig wasn't sure why; they'd only been working together for a day so far. "It's almost all full up now. You should come watch the show with us, when it starts."

   "Sure thing, Butters," Bebe said, all but waving him away.

   Luckily, Butters took the hint and left, and they all sat there for what felt like several minutes, stewing in the reality of what had just happened. Absurd thoughts kept passing through Craig's mind. Like the amount of Facebook friend requests he'd have, after this. And the fact that Tweek was still here, somewhere, and might have watched their set, though it was equally likely that he'd been a rude asshole and holed himself in a room somewhere, reading one of his books. And that he was now ravenously hungry -- his stomach growled, and Clyde looked up at the sound.

   Clyde, Craig could not make himself look away from, and he couldn't even hide that he was staring. Clyde had run his fingers through his hair at one point, mussing it up, and he looked punch-drunk and sort of viscerally satisfied in a way Craig was struggling to deal with. Clyde loved to perform; he loved the lights, the stage, the attention and recognition and now he'd had it all and he was fat with it and his eyes were still bright from the adrenaline, an intoxicating and tragic combination.

   Craig felt it too. His pulse was hammering, and none of the ways he wanted to use up this energy were actually plausible, which evoked a restless sort of frustration that felt un-containable in this tiny tiny room.

   "I'm calling that pizza," Craig announced, and got up. He was alarmed to find that he was unsteady on his feet, legs jelly-like beneath his weight. Clyde reached out and grabbed his elbow to steady him. Craig almost gasped at the contact and hated himself for it; he left as quickly as he could.

   Eventually he found a door that led outside, not too far from the main door of the stadium. The sun had set, but only just, and the sky was still the hazy deep-purple of twilight. There were a lot more cars in the parking lot now, and people were still showing up, though none of them looked twice at him.

   The cool air felt incredible on his overheated skin. He took it in for a moment, and then he leaned back against the wall and checked his phone. He had fourteen missed calls from Ruby. Smiling to himself, he called her back.

   "What the hell, Craig?" was her greeting.

   "What?"

   "I just got a call from Lisa saying your band just opened for _Moop_  tonight."

   "Yeah."

   "Well?"

   "Well what?"

   "What the hell?" she demanded. "I mean, why? How?"

   "I wish I knew."

   "Okay?" She sounded incredulous. "That's all you're going to tell me?" She paused. "Are you still at the Pepsi Center?"

   "We literally just got off stage," Craig said, though maybe that wasn't true. He had no idea how long it had been; time had become strangely insignificant. 

   "So if I get a ride there..."

   "If you get a ride there what?"

   "Can you get me in?"

   "I'm kind of busy here," Craig told her.

   "Craig!" she cried. "You could get me backstage!"

   "Look, no." Craig slid down the wall to sit on the asphalt, crossing his legs. "I'm not getting you backstage."

   "I'm your flesh and blood!"

   "And I'm trying to make a name for myself in the music industry," Craig said, unsure of where the determination in his voice was coming from. "I will not be escorting some minor around-- I'm not babysitting you."

   "That is cruel."

   "It's not cruel. You don't even want to come tonight. Kenny's way hungover and he might throw up on you."

   "I'd let Kenny McCormick throw up on me," Ruby said, sullenly.

   Craig took a moment to breathe in, and then out, and pretend he hadn't heard that.

   "Look, they're coming back to the Red Rocks in like three months. I'll try to get you backstage passes for the homecoming show, okay?"

   "Passes, plural?"

   "For you and your friends," Craig said. He imagined them showing up all wearing shoes that he, himself, had sold to them, an idea which both annoyed and pleased him, somehow. "I kind of owe you for helping out so much with the bus."

   "That's right." Ruby sounded haughty, suddenly. "You better follow through on that, Craig."

   "Yeah. I will," Craig said. "Did your friend say if we were good or not?"

   "Mm, not really. She said the guy singer is really hot. And I was like, yeah? Well I live next door to him! And it's _my_  garage he's been singing in for like eight years!" Ruby sighed. "Why won't he be Facebook friends with me?"

   Craig rolled his eyes and felt a strange compulsion to hang up on her immediately, and so he did, with only mild guilt. There was nothing he loved more than a dramatically ended phone call. He put his phone away and inhaled the late-evening air, his heartbeat finally calming down. Then he remembered what he'd come outside for and retrieved his phone again, looked up some local Denver place, ordered two pizzas to be delivered to the Pepsi Center, insisted five times that he was not joking, paid with his bank card, and then leaned back against the wall to wait.

   He toyed with his phone in his pocket, and resisted the temptation to check social media. Would people be flooding their Twitter mentions, their Youtube hits skyrocketing? Probably not. Word of mouth tended to take effect _after_  an event, and for the people in the audience tonight, the event hadn't even started yet. Craig looked up at the darkening sky and considered that. This was the first day of the rest of his life, and he was already feeling a strange kind of withdrawal, being away from the only three other people who really knew how that felt.

 

-v-

  
   Craig was greeted like a hero when he returned to the dressing room with pizza. Butters was gone, so it was just the four of them, and they'd acquired plastic cups of beer from somewhere in Craig's absence, along with a lukewarm bottle of Sprite which was, disturbingly, unsealed. Craig didn't care -- he drank the whole bottle almost in one go, and then ate five slices of pizza with single-minded determination.

   He felt like he had run ten miles and was still slightly high from it. They all were. Token had emerged from his corner and decided instead to stand in the middle of the room and read all of their Twitter mentions aloud. Bebe fell into a fit of hysterical giggles as she struggled to dislodge a piece of stringy mozzarella that hung between her mouth and a pizza slice she held a foot away. They were being ridiculous, and they knew it, but surely this was happiness, Craig thought. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a genuine reason to celebrate something. These plaster walls felt impenetrable -- the Sprite was the best he'd ever tasted.

   "So the next show is, when?" Token asked, clearly poised to Tweet about it.

   "Two days," Bebe said loudly, grinning and bumping her plastic cup against Clyde's. "Tulsa, baby!"

   Craig was reluctant to leave the dressing room and let other people see him feeling so light, but out of politeness they eventually had to. It had been an hour; Mrs Cartman's snacks were all gone, and when they passed by her little room, Craig caught a glimpse of her sipping what looked like champagne and talking to Wendy, who at last seemed sort of calm. She also had a glass of champagne, and Craig wondered if maybe that was why.

   Token and Bebe left to greet her. Craig considered joining them, but he'd never gotten along with Wendy and didn't relish the idea of having to hug her and pretend that wasn't the case. Clyde seemed to have the same idea. They were left standing in the empty hallway together, listening to the reunion taking place through the crack in the door.

   Craig tapped his foot, feeling antsy to do something other than just stand here. When their eyes met, Clyde smiled at him. "You killed it out there, man," he said. "I could tell you were really in the zone."

   Craig leaned back against the wall, and smiled to himself. He couldn't recall having many coherent thoughts onstage, which meant that Clyde was probably right.  

   "So were you," he offered.

   "Nah. I messed up a few times." Sheepishly, Clyde looked away. "We should've rehearsed more -- I feel like such a dumbass, grilling Token about not knowing the songs and then being so rusty. Especially with _Leftovers_."

   "I really don't want to talk about that song," Craig said before he could stop himself. Clyde looked startled by his honesty, but Craig decided not to reign it in this time. "Or rehearse it, again, ever."

   "Why not?" Clyde asked. Craig only gave him a long look, half-exasperated, half-pitying. He had no intention of telling Clyde about the origin of _Leftovers_ , but sometimes he felt he was on the verge of figuring it out for himself. And yet, he was always proven wrong. "I don't get what your deal is with that."

   "It's just the dumbest song ever. I mean, who writes a song about Thanksgiving dinner? How immature is that?"

   "I always figured there was a deeper meaning to it," said Clyde, shrugging.

   Craig said nothing, and stared at the wall ahead. It was plain white plaster, easy to get lost in. The electric feeling he'd been revelling in was starting to fade. He'd felt so good on stage, he barely even noticed when they started that god-forsaken song; the beat was ingrained into his muscle memory, and he just went with it, glad when Bebe didn't drag it out and let it end in a timely manner, presumably for his sake.

   "Your mom does make the best turkey," Clyde said, after a long silence. "It doesn't come out all dry and shitty like when my mom used to try to make it."

   Craig was caught off guard by this, and looked over. "Thanks."

   "Yeah." Clyde smiled again. "You think we'll be home for Thanksgiving this year?"

   Craig hesitated at that -- ' _we'_. It was possible that Clyde meant the band, but at the same time Craig could sense that he didn't, because Thanksgiving had been their thing since they were ten, and maybe after all these years it was a habit that couldn't be broken. In Craig's mind, this was true. As though wherever Clyde carved his stupid Thanksgiving turkey, Craig would be there as well, whether that meant burning the shit out of it on their own in some distant city, or returning to the same old dining table in dreary South Park to do so.

   But the tour would only last the summer. Craig shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn't like the thought of going home at the end of it, returning to his old life. "Where else would we be?" he asked, hoping Clyde had ideas -- no matter how far-fetched, Craig was open to anywhere that would keep the necessity of returning to South Park at bay.

   "I don't know, I guess," Clyde said. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't even left Colorado yet, or anything."

   "Yeah." Craig peered back into the room. Bebe and Token had taken seats and been poured glasses of fizzing champagne, and were listening intently to some long story that Wendy was telling. "You want to get out of here?"

   "And go where?"

   "We could walk?" Craig suggested. "I feel like I need to be walking right now."

   They walked. There wasn't much to see but posters: posters for Avalanche and the Nuggets, and several glamorous female pop stars who had performed at the arena. As they neared the headliners' dressing room, one repeated with increasing frequency. It was the poster for Moop's newest album and associated tour, an aggressive bright-red monstrosity that read 'FALSE GODS'. Craig had barely noticed the name before, but it seemed relevant now.

   They found Stan and Kyle standing outside of their own dressing room with their heads close together, peering at something on Kyle's phone. Craig didn't love the idea of encountering them twice in one day, but he was curious as to what they were doing and whether it was something dumb he could tell his friends about later, so he kept walking in their direction, not exactly approaching them. He halted only when Clyde did, staying behind him and keeping some distance.

   "What are you guys doing out here?" Clyde asked.

   "Nothing," Stan said, too quickly. He glanced at Kyle, who in turn glanced towards the dressing room door. It was decorated with a big yellow star, and today the centre of it read _MOOP_. Craig wondered what was so interesting about it, other than how tacky it was. Then he heard raised voices -- or, he realised, just one raised voice. Cartman's.

   "You sleazy little fucker," he was saying, and Craig hoped this wasn't his version of dirty talk, directed at one of their unfortunate groupies. "What is wrong with you?" There was a thud, and then a wheezy, pained sound. "Were you _born_  screwed up? Huh? Is that it?"

   "I don't think so, Eric."

   "So--" Stan said, raising his voice, "Anyway, Kyle was just showing me this video of-- did you know there's a Youtube channel for those dog shows they do in England? And they post the bloopers online?"

   "Really?" said Clyde. He shuffled closer to Stan, trying to see the screen.

   "Is that Butters?" Craig asked, narrowing his eyes, though he already knew it was.

   For a long moment, Stan stared at him. Then his eyes went back to the phone screen, and he said to Clyde, "So, like, sometimes the dogs mess up and they post it on Youtube. Dude, it's the best."

   Something hit the dressing room door. Everyone flinched; Kyle immediately started the video again, and turned the volume all the way up. But it was no less audible when Cartman said, "Did your mom drop you on your head when you were a baby, or something?"

   "I--" Nervously, Butters laughed. "It sure is a possibility."

   A tense silence. Craig could imagine Cartman pacing, and swore he could hear Butters' quick, heavy breaths, like he was pressed up against the door. He moved closer, crouching slightly and putting his ear close to the crack where the door met the frame, listening.

   "Dude, don't do that," Stan said, sort of lamely.

   "I want to listen," Craig told him. "This is fucked up."

   "Yeah," Clyde agreed. Craig looked back over his shoulder at him, surprised. He was looking at the dressing room door, his brow creased with concern, and Craig felt a pang of guilt for assuming he would really be distracted by puppies, of all things. "I'm-- I'm going to go."

   "What?" Craig said. "Why?"

   "I don't want to hear this," said Clyde, backing off. Stan and Kyle watched him leave without comment.

   Craig wanted to be annoyed, but he was immediately distracted when another thud came from inside the room. "Is this because your parents didn't love you?"

   Craig winced. Butters said nothing. Kyle was trying in vain to increase the volume even more, and Craig could hear dogs yipping and a crowd laughing, very distantly. He tried to tune it out.

   Cartman sighed. "Look. Butters. I'm not trying to be the bad guy here. I get it. I do. You're insatiable. You want me all the time, I can't always be there, due to the fact that I have a life, and you can't deal with it."

   "Eric--"

   "But, this? Butters? This? You screwing around with strangers on like, Craigslist or whatever? Picking up all those nasty diseases and then trying to pass them on to _me_? It's not happening. It's not what I signed up for, and if you can't stop slutting around--"

   "You know that's not what happened!"

   "Do I?" said Cartman. "Do I, really?"

   "Yes!" Butters cried. "You don't have to believe me, but it's the truth!"

   "Uh, no offense, Butters, but you're the last person I'd believe went home with some guy and didn't fuck him. I mean, god. It's got to be pathological. I'd be worried about you, except now I have to shell out for a god damn AIDS test."

   "It's not called an _AIDS test_! And-- and why should I be faithful, anyway, Eric? You're not-- I was never just yours! Never your boyfriend! Not even-- not even your _lover_." Butters sniffed, sounding close to tears; maybe he was already crying. "If you're worried about diseases then you should use protection like everybody else!"

   "Or maybe _you_ should value my fucking trust!" Cartman yelled, and the door flew open. Craig moved just in time not to be hit in the face with it, and backed off as Cartman stepped out into the hallway, still doing up his belt. He came to a halt just over the threshold, and went rigid, staring at each of them in turn. Craig expected his jaw to drop. Instead, it tightened.

   "Shit," Kyle muttered under his breath, fumbling his phone back into his pocket.

   "Um? What is this?" Cartman demanded, coming back to himself. He cast an accusing glare at Craig in particular, narrowing his eyes at him. Craig was surprised to find his heart beginning to race. "Were you listening?"

   Butters poked his head out of the doorway, looking tear-stained and startled, his hair a wreck. He seemed reluctant to step out of the room, hiding behind the doorframe, and he was still sniffling, wiping at his eyes.

   "No," Stan said, extremely unconvincingly. In Craig's opinion, his stubble made him look less trustworthy.

   "And you!" Cartman said, turning on Craig, who found himself backed up against the wall due to the narrowness of the corridor and Cartman's sheer girth. "What the fuck are you doing here? We specifically requested a dressing room that was nowhere near you guys'."

   "Cartman, God damn it," Kyle snapped, with a fleeting glance towards Craig, as though he might actually have been offended by that. "Ugh," he said. Then he pulled himself together, and pretended to check his watch. Was it a Rolex? Craig couldn't tell -- he wasn't sure what a Rolex looked like. "We just came to tell you it's almost nine. We have to go."

   "Fine," Cartman said. "But don't think you're getting off that easy, Jew," he added lowly as he passed Kyle, deliberately pushing into him before lumbering up the hallway and out of sight without looking back. Stan sighed and then, wordlessly, turned and followed him.

   Craig considered going the same way, but Kyle stopped him with a dangerous look. His eyes flicked to Butters, and then to Craig again, his gaze never losing its intensity. Then he turned on his heel and left as well.

   "Jesus," Craig said, exhaling. He hadn't realised how tense he'd become.

   Butters made a wobbly, noncommittal sound in response. It was just the two of them now, and Craig couldn't help staring. What else was there to look at but Butters, who seemed to have achieved a state of temporary calm, though his breaths still shuddered and his eyelashes were still damp. And he was staring back, as though expecting something to happen.

   The situation was rapidly growing uneasy. For a moment -- just a true split-second -- Craig considered simply turning and walking away. It would be too cruel, he decided. Butters had probably done him a favour at least once in their lives, and even if he hadn't, he'd spent all day covering their asses, making sure that they didn't look and sound like garbage on stage.

   He'd done the same for Moop. And yet, here he was.

   "You should change your shirt," Craig said.

   At first Butters only stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Then he glanced down and noticed, apparently for the first time, the unfortunate stain by the neckline of it, stark against the black fabric of his t-shirt. He closed his eyes. Then he looked up at the ceiling, as though asking God to deliver him from this.

   "Sorry," Craig said.

   Butters shook his head. "I guess I'd better run out to our van to get some new clothes," he said thickly.

   Craig found himself mentally rewriting that image of Butters he'd crafted, the young professional, collected and calm. How could anyone be, while they were living in the shadow of Eric Cartman? He actually felt, in a way, that Butters was cosmically destined for this -- it was just a natural sort of progression, that he'd end up crying in a hallway while Cartman was on stage in front of thousands of people. Craig knew it was a cruel thought, and wished he hadn't had it.

   "Yeah. That's pretty gross," Craig said, because anything that came out of Eric Cartman's body was. Butters didn't move, and Craig glanced at him, wondering if his comment had made the situation somehow worse. Butters was looking down at his shoes, tears dripping from the end of his button nose. Craig sighed. "I can walk you there, if you want."

   "Oh, well, that's real nice of you, Craig," Butters said, and then gave one last sniff. He had none of his usual enthusiasm, and he bumped his knuckles together repeatedly as he led Craig through the corridors to one of the outer doors. "Um. You know, I hate Denver shows. I always feel like my parents are gonna jump out behind a bush or somethin' and drag me back to the house." Butters awkwardly laughed this off, holding the door open, but Craig narrowed his eyes. He lived across the street from the Stotches; he was pretty sure he'd seen Butters be physically dragged back to his house on more than one occasion, when he still lived there. "So, um, I-- I sure do appreciate it."

   "Sure," Craig said, and stepped outside. Butters followed, sticking close as they passed through the parking lot. 

   When they got to the crew bus, Butters unlocked the door and then hesitated, turning around. "I'm gonna wash my face too while I'm in there, so you just wait here for me, okay?"

   "Okay," Craig said, though he hadn't really planned on waiting. He watched Butters go inside before he sat down on the metal steps. He could hear Butters humming to himself as he changed, and then the faint sound of running water from the other end of the bus. Then he water stopped and he heard crying again, distinctly. Craig hunched his back, and put his elbows on his knees. Checking out Butters' Facebook account hadn't prepared him for this. But what could have? 

   If he thought about it, it seemed a logical conclusion to the dynamic they'd always had; Butters playing the role of some kind of endentured servant, cleaning up all the messes that Cartman left strewn in his wake, half the time a victim of his recklessness and half the time a victim of his malice. Which was it this time? Craig was uncertain. He looked out across the parking lot, feeling suddenly apprehensive. He could think of nothing he wanted to say to Butters, and yet he had to say something. He was sure he'd heard Cartman hit him back in the dressing room. He also was sure that he, on some level, had some kind of moral obligation to warn anyone who slept with Eric Cartman that it was a bad idea. Even Butters, who should have known this better than anyone.

   "O-kay!" Butters chirped, announcing his return. Craig moved out of the way, allowing him to hop out of the bus and lock the door again. "Thanks a lot for waiting for me."

   Tersely, Craig nodded. The chill of night was coming in low to the ground. When Butters' keys were back in his pocket, he gave Craig that expectant look again. There was no sign that he'd been crying. Craig could imagine him pressing a damp towel against his eyes to hide it, like he'd seen Clyde do hundreds of times.

   "Do you want to, like... talk about it?" Craig asked, not totally sure if he really wanted to hear about it. He felt self-conscious, standing in the middle of the deserted parking lot, and he looked around carefully, hoping that nobody was watching. The sky was on the cusp of darkness, yellow-blue and fading; still light enough to see.

   "Well, no, not really. Maybe later." Butters paused, looking hopeful. "I sure could use a hug right about now, though. Just a big ol' hug to take the edge off?"

   Craig tensed, immediately uncomfortable. "I really don't give good hugs."

   "Sure you do!" Butters smiled at him, and then pushed some of his blond hair back from his forehead. Craig had no idea why he would say that, because he had no memory of ever hugging Butters in the past. Good -- this would he a one time thing, Craig thought, and he relented and held out his arms with a sigh, refusing to look directly at Butters as he did so.

   Butters took one big step towards him and immediately situated himself within Craig's personal bubble, with his arms around his back and his forehead just barely resting on Craig's shoulder. Craig allowed this to happen but didn't hug back. He let his arms rest by his sides instead, quietly perturbed by how tightly Butters was clinging to him, and the fact that he probably did not smell amazing, after how hot he'd been all day.

   "Oh, it's been so long," Butters said into Craig's t-shirt. His voice was muffled by the fabric, and Craig could feel his breath through it.

   "What?" Craig asked him as he stared straight ahead. He didn't want to look down. Tilting his head would give him a faceful of Butters' hair.

   "Since anybody hugged me."

   "My mom hugged me earlier today," Craig said, just in case Butters thought they had this in common.

   "Craig," Butters said, in a chiding way.

   After that, minutes seemed to pass in silence. Butters' breaths grew slow and his grip less tight, and Craig felt the increasing need to say something, but he all he could think of was, "This is really weird."

   "Oh. Sorry, then." Reluctantly, Butters pulled away, one hand clutching at his side. When he saw that Craig had noticed, he frowned and said, "...I guess I'm still a little tender there."

   "Yeah." Craig sighed, and looked back towards the arena. It was hard to imagine there were thousands of people packed inside. "I can't believe those guys know he hits you and they don't do anything."

   "He doesn't hit me," said Butters. "It was just a little kick." He dragged the toe of his shoe along the asphalt. "He was real mad about what I did."

   Craig was in no way comforted by this new information. He hardly believed that Cartman was capable of lifting his own leg high enough to kick Butters in the stomach while they were both standing.

   "Uh, but-- anyways, Kyle wants me to leave him. He really does! But he can't say nothin' about it now, 'cause Eric has his balls in a vice grip," Butters explained. "He says Kyle's balls belong to him. He says-- he says he could hang those balls in a trophy cabinet and make himself a fuzzy ginger wallet from what's left over and--"

   "Butters, God, okay," Craig said, stepping away from him in alarm. "I get it."

   "Well, that's just what Eric says," Butters mumbled. "It's kinda like the time Kyle got real drunk in Vegas and wet his pants and made me promise not to tell anyone, but I told him in exchange he had to buy me smoothies whenever I wanted, that whole tour. And he did!" Butters said, grinning. Then he hesitated. "Um. But, let's make that a secret just between you and me, though, right Craig?"

   "Of course," Craig said, though his fingers twitched to grab his phone and send Clyde a gleeful text about it. He knew there was a reason he liked Butters. "Thank you for telling me that," he added, and meant it.

   "You're welcome!" Butters said, seemingly automatically.

   "That hug was my good deed for the year," Craig told him. " _You're_ welcome."

   "Yeah." Absently, Butters rubbed at his side again. "You think maybe I could switch busses for a while? Your driver is a real nice guy-- I don't think he'll mind."

   "Sure," Craig said. "We don't have a bed for you, though." 

   He briefly imagined a scenario where the addition of Butters meant that Craig would have to cram into one of the tiny bunks with Clyde. They were even smaller than his single bed at home, and his heart leapt at the thought. Butters killed this fantasy immediately by saying, "That's okay. I usually sleep in the cab, anyways."

   Craig blinked. "I guess that's convenient."

   "Uh-huh." Butters said. "You want to get going? I think the show already started, and you wouldn't want to miss it."

   Craig kind of did want to miss it, but he allowed Butters to lead him back to the steaming heat and cacophony of the arena. Moop's set was already well underway and Craig found his bandmates with Wendy, sitting atop an unused speaker that was laying on its side, protected from the rest of the crowd by barriers.

   They made room for Craig in the middle, and he joined them, feeling important. They were forced into silence by the overwhelming wall of sound that emanated from the stage, and Butters seemed content with that; he was distracted, checking his phone often. On stage, Cartman was shirtless and panting, his round shape and sheen of sweat reminding Craig of some kind of glazed seashell. Kyle had shed the denim jacket he'd been wearing, which now lay near his feet.

   "Where were you?" Clyde yelled into Craig's ear, leaning in close.

   "I was hugging Butters in a parking lot," Craig replied, and hoped no one would notice the goosebumps that had risen on his arms.

   Clyde pulled back and narrowed his eyes at him. "Are you drunk? Were you drinking?"

   "You would think," Craig said. "But no. I did it of my own free will."

   Clyde seemed to doubt this, but went back to watching the set. Craig did too, leaning back on his arms. He was feeling sort of airy for some reason, untroubled by trivialities like how unappealing Moop's music was, and what their singer got up to behind closed doors. There was some kind of magic in live shows, where real life seemed to stop existing for a little while, and the whole world became the heat and the lights and the song that blared from the speakers. Craig wondered if his band had made anyone feel that way tonight, or if they'd all been checking their phones and talking over the noise, waiting for the main event. 

   "Mah mah mah mah," Cartman said, lowly, into his microphone. In his periphery, Craig saw Bebe and Wendy exchange a look.

   Craig had to squint to see past the strobe. The song was familiar, but he didn't recognise it from either of Moop's albums.

   "Why do I know this?" he asked Bebe. She only grinned at him, and held up one finger as if to say, _wait_.

   So Craig watched the stage, curious. Cartman was attacking the lyrics with his usual intensity, his voice almost at a growl. Kyle, who'd been pink-cheeked all night from the heat, was now completely red in the face, glaring at the floor. Stan kept casting glances at him until he fumbled a chord, and a screeching sound blared from the speakers.

   "Is that Lady Gaga?" Token asked him, leaning across Clyde to do so.

   "It is," Craig said, astonished, as the chorus began and the fans began to scream.

   It was the last song in their set. Cartman drew it out for at least ten entire minutes, with increasing aggression, until he barked the chorus one last time, and then dropped the microphone as the lights went out in a flash. The audience went wild. Even through the gloom, from where he was sitting, Craig had a clear view of Kyle as he stormed offstage, wrestled with his guitar strap as he struggled to get it over his head, and then threw his bass at a nearby roadie, who miraculously caught it. Cartman was watching him with unrestrained glee, and it was Stan who finally grabbed his mic and called out, with little enthusiasm, "Goodnight, Denver, we love you!"

  
-v-

  
   The afterparty was at some downtown nightclub Craig did not know the name of. It had no signs on the outside, just a sleek black mirror-finish that he checked himself out in as he loitered near the front door.

   Craig didn't do nightclubs, nor did he generally do Denver. His social gatherings usually consisted of Clyde and Bebe getting drunk on somebody's bedroom floor while Craig sipped Sprite, the three of them listening to 80's music and complaining about their jobs. When Token and Jimmy were in town, they sometimes splashed out and went to Skeeter's, where Craig almost always ran into his dad, and then ended the night by delivering a weepy and nauseous Clyde home to disapproving Roger. Those nights always made Craig felt like he was both too young and too old to be there; like he was watching his future play out in the forms of older men, presented with the option of changing his trajectory but choosing instead to sit in a dingy little booth, drinking from a damp glass bottle and watching his friends play sloppy games of darts. Like he could do better, but didn't. 

   Craig did not know this area, though he sort of wished he did. There were some gay clubs in Denver that he was intensely curious about, but like hookup apps and dating sites and anything else that might lead to him potentially meeting someone, he saw them as inevitable disappointments, not really worth the effort. He didn't like the thought of putting himself out there, trying to attract strangers, and getting to know people he was not already personally invested in. Such was the peril of living in a small town, he thought -- sometimes it was hard to remember that better things could lay beyond it.

   Inside, the wall of sound had been overwhelming, and there was some kind of strobe lighting going on. Craig hadn't been able to stomach these things on top of the crowd, and so he'd instead gone out the back door, through the alley and into the street, busying himself with tapping vaguely at his phone as though he was about to make a call at any moment, though it was actually switched off.

   It was a nice night, only a little bit chilly. When Craig had announced his decision to get some fresh air, Clyde had stopped him, looking serious.

   "You'll get cold," he said, shrugging his jacket off and handing it over. Craig couldn't hear him over the music at first and had to read his lips, and then he stared at the jacket, unable to believe his luck. He wanted to say something aloof, about how he didn't feel the cold due to having grown up on top of a mountain or whatever South Park was in comparison to this cityscape, but he also wanted the jacket, and so he took it, slung it over his arm, and left without another word.

   There was a line outside the door and Craig situated himself a fair distance from it; there was no burly man to check people's names or whatever was supposed to happen at places like this, and he worried fleetingly that the people waiting might think it was him. They were all girls in tiny dresses and skyscraper heels, and men in jeans and dark t-shirts. Craig squinted at them, trying to be discreet. Were they fans, or just townies trying to get into an event? Every so often a girl would shift in place, pulling the hem of her skirt down and bending at the waist, teetering on her heels, trying to protect herself from the sharp breeze. He felt distinctly superior. He was out here by choice, and he was in possession of a jacket.

   He put it on. It was a few sizes too large, but he didn't quite swim in it, and when he glanced at his reflection again, he came to the swift conclusion that it didn't really suit him. He was too pale and too angular to wear a varsity jacket, ever, especially a genuine one. It made him look like some reedy, geeky character on a teen comedy-drama television show, gifted the letter jacket of his jock boyfriend whose journey out of the closet had been a subplot all season long. Given the circumstances, Craig didn't know what to make of that. But the jacket was warm and smelled incredible, especially around the collar. For both of those reasons, he pulled it tighter around himself and felt content.

   He leaned back against the wall, and took several deep breaths, letting the cold air fill his lungs to capacity. It had been a long day, and life-changing. Now, it was rapidly drawing to a close. They'd be meeting their driver and setting off for Oklahoma in just a few hours. Tulsa-- how exciting. Craig had imagined he'd only ever visit Tulsa if he had the misfortune of being transferred there in relation to some tragic office job, to work in one of the city's approximately eight tall buildings. But he only drew these assumptions from television, and he was sure it would surpass his expectations. The bar was set low.

   The heavy front door opened with a foreboding creak, and then Craig held his name being called. 

   He turned to find Butters, peering at him through the dim light, and standing in the doorway about ten feet away. When Craig acknowledged him, he waved him over.

   "I almost didn't think it was you!" Butters gushed, unfastening the rope barrier to let Craig in front the other side. Some people in the line groaned their complaints, but Craig stayed outside, as Butters made no indication that he was going anywhere. He'd propped the door open with something and he had a clipboard in his hand and a pen tucked behind his ear. "I like the new look! It's very, um, youthful."

   "Oh, you know," Craig said, and shrugged. He realised Butters didn't have a jacket, but there was no way he was giving this one up. Partly because it was Clyde's, and partly because Butters might interpret it as a come-on, which was not how Craig wanted this night to end. "This is all just one big high school reunion, in a way."

   "I suppose you're right!" Butters wasn't looking at him; he gestured at a small pack of girls in the crowd, waving them forward. They looked elated, and he smiled at them in a magnanimous sort of way, letting them pass. "Well, how about that? How's Tweek holdin' up?"

   "Why does everyone always want to talk about Tweek?" Craig asked. "He's not riding with us and I haven't seen him all night. I don't know where he is, or what he's doing, and frankly, I really don't care."

   "Oh, you... you're not worried?" asked Butters, and Craig shook his head and almost laughed. "Well-- I think if I were you, I would be, to be honest, Craig. I like all the folks who tour with us, but they can be kinda scary if you don't know 'em too well. And for Tweek-- well, a-aint everyone kinda scary to him?" Craig answered this question by rolling his eyes. Butters pouted like he'd kicked a puppy. "Geez, the poor fella. Someone oughta be looking out for him. Did he really run away from home?"

   "He didn't 'run away'. He left. He's twenty-two years old." Tweek was actually still twenty-one, but Craig liked the idea of convincing Butters that he'd forgotten when Tweek's birthday was. "Why would I worry? Because Tweek Tweak is finally taking his first baby steps into real life in the third decade of his existence? Wow. Stop the presses."

   "You sound awful sore at him," Butters said, warily. "How come?"

   "I'm just tired of being associated with him," Craig said. "But I guess you wouldn't know what that feels like."

   Butters smiled, apparently thinking this was some kind of compliment.

   Craig sighed, and felt mildly surprised when his breath didn't crystialize in the cool air. "What even was tonight? I didn't even know you were into guys."

   "Well, I consider myself bi-curious," Butters replied.

   Craig eyed him. "How can you be bi-curious? Didn't you have Eric's dick in your mouth, like, earlier today?" he asked, already wishing he'd been able to finish that sentence more delicately. 

   He looked up at the sky, willing the stars to distract him from the mental image he'd created. He could definitely see why experiencing Eric Cartman might make Butters reconsider his stance on men in general.

   Butters raised his eyebrows. "I mean bi-curious the other way."

   "Oh. What's that like?" Craig asked, leaning back against the wall. He'd never had such a phase; he had effectively gone from zero to gay, seemingly overnight. It was straightforward, if not a little overwhelming, considering he was ten at the time.

   "I sure don't know which way is up!" Butters was ushering another posse of girls inside, cordial smile plastered on, only half-listening. Craig moved out of their way, pushing himself against the bricks, hoping the jacket wouldn't snag. They left a cloud of fruity perfume in their wake, heels clacking. He seemed to notice that Craig was waiting for him to say more, and shrugged. "Yep. That's the extent of it, really." He lowered his voice and added, "But Eric is straight, you know. One hundred percent."

   "Bullshit," Craig said.

   "He really is! He wouldn't even look at me while we were foolin' around. It was strictly, um, utilitarian, he said. And it certainly felt that way, too." When he noticed the way Craig was looking at him, he scuffed his shoe on the ground and added, "I-- I'm just sayin'."

   "Do you have a therapist back in...?" Craig trailed off, realising he wasn't sure where Butters lived now, if anywhere.

   "Santa Monica," Butters said. "Um-- and, no, I can't say that I do!"

   "Maybe you should get one."

   "Oh."

   Craig let the silence lie as Butters checked more wrist bands, perturbed by how that had come out, and also in general. Utilitarian sex with straight men -- what a concept. It made him think of Clyde, which in turn made him a little sad, mostly because he'd at some point subconsciously decided that he absolutely would be open to letting Clyde put his dick in his mouth if he asked. And he wouldn't even have to ask nicely.

   He was beginning to feel cold again. Here he was, talking down to Butters like he wouldn't do the same thing if the right guy so much as looked at him in a certain way. And like he wasn't wearing Clyde's fucking jacket as he did so, pathetically.

   There were still what looked like a hundred people waiting to get in. Was everyone in Denver here? Craig could hear the faint throb of the beat from inside, and felt like maybe he was missing out on something. While considering this and staring into space, he noticed that near the front of the line, there was a small group of men in tight shirts who seemed genuinely excited to be there. When they noticed Craig looking, they looked back at him. One of them smiled. It seemed like a good sign.

   "Why don't you let those guys in?" Craig asked, pointing them out.

   Butters craned his neck to see them, and then shook his head. "Ah, I can't. They aren't on the list, and the fellas always say, the only exceptions I can make are guys who are in the industry, and cute girls. I don't think they're either."

   "So don't let them in for 'the fellas'," Craig said, without looking at him. "They're for you."

   "Oh, gosh! Me?" Butters burst out laughing. He even slapped his knee, which Craig had never seen anyone do in real life. "They wouldn't look twice at me! They just wanna go party with Kyle."

   " _What?_ "

   "Uh-huh," Butters said. "Fellas sure love Kyle, alright. Didn't you hear all those guys near the front screamin' his name during the show?"

   "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

   "Mmhm." Butters nodded. "He's a sex symbol on the internet."

   "I'm sure that's not true," Craig said, though he was nervous that it could be. Kenny was the one who always ended up quoted in teen magazines, according to Ruby, but the _internet_  was a different arena altogether. Who knew what people thought of Kyle in dark corners of forums, message boards crowded with blurry paparazzi shots and speculation about supposed recent weight gain? "I should go back in," he added, in parting, when a particularly large group approached, needing their wristbands checked. 

   "You cheer up, now," Butters said, patting his shoulder. Craig didn't get why, since he was feeling pretty good now that he'd had a few lungfuls of fresh air and a conversation that had led him to believe that Butters wasn't too distraught about what had happened in the dressing room. He thanked Butters anyway, and then left, through the open double doors, and heard some of the people in line groan in blatant envy as he did. That raised his mood even more.

   The place was pitch black and sticky-hot, with roving lights in lime green and Moop's signature magenta, and packed with bodies in not too many clothes. The VIP area was towards the back -- Craig had been shown to it earlier -- and he pushed his way through the crowd, catching glimpses of familiar faces. A group of underage-looking girls Butters had let in were at the bar, talking to some guys. Kenny was with a bodyguard-looking roadie, chatting up some young redhead in a pantsuit who looked like she might be a journalist of some description.

   Craig went to the railing overlooking the sunken dance floor and surveyed it. It was packed with moving bodies, like the rest of the place, but the lights underneath were a sickly green colour that made everyone look alien. He could see Wendy and Bebe dancing together, laughing. Liane Cartman was close to them, whispering in the ear of a man who was not her boyfriend. In moments, the crowd seemed to swallow them all up. Clyde was nowhere to be seen, and upon realising this Craig felt suddenly aware that he was still wearing his jacket, though he was already sweating. He rolled up the sleeves, and they slipped down again immediately.

   The music pounded on; a song Craig had never heard before. In the magenta light he saw a bathroom door and gravitated towards it, on autopilot, unable to think, which was really the point of parties like these. There was an element of letting go involved that Craig had never mastered or wanted to, and this seemed like neither the time nor the place to start.

   In the bathroom there were girls, for some reason, and a small crowd around the sinks that made Craig uneasy. He didn't want to listen to their conversation. He went into a stall and attempted to consult the map of this place he'd sketched out in his mind -- incomprehensible, he had no idea where he was -- and took several deep breaths. The floor here was sort of glittery. In the men's bathroom? _Was_ this the men's bathroom? Craig wasn't sure he'd even looked at the sign, and he pressed his head against the stall door, relieved to find it cool against his skin. 

   There was once a time when Craig could do parties, though on a much smaller scale, and back then whatever sofa he decided to sit himself on felt like the VIP area to him, because Clyde would slump next to him and check out passing girls and occasionally get up to bring Craig a drink, and Token would circulate and continually wind up perched on the arm of the couch, usually with his girlfriend of the moment balanced precariously on his lap. People would come by to chat, and Stan and Kyle would always make themselves the exceptions, because they'd sit on the other couch or on some armchair or something and do the exact same thing.

   Craig closed his eyes and counted to one hundred, and then he left the stall.

   At the sinks there were five girls, all beautiful and inquisitive, looking him over. They all had their drinks with them, Craig noticed, resting on the counter in a haphazard row, lipstick stains on the glasses. One of them was wearing a _Moop_ t-shirt tucked into her denim shorts. Another one had a nosebleed she hadn't noticed yet, dripping down towards her lips.

   "Sorry," he said, lamely. He wasn't sure where to look -- he settled on his own guilty reflection in the mirror behind them. "I realise this is not the men's bathroom."

   "It's okay," one of them said. "We want you to feel comfortable."

   Craig had no idea what they were talking about, and they were all smiling at him in a weird way that put him on edge.

   "I don't think I've ever felt less comfortable," he said, glancing towards the door. "Look-- have you seen a guy..." Craig began to ask, but then trailed off, realising Clyde was so markedly average in every way that he actually had no distinguishing features at all. What could he say? A guy with very soft hair? A guy who was wearing this exact jacket but no longer is? "That guy who played guitar for the band who opened for Moop? Is he around?"

   "The cute black guy?" a different one asked, giggling.

   "No, the other guy."

   "Oh. No, I don't think so." She looked around at her friends; they all shook their heads, hair bouncing. "Is the cute black guy around, though?" she added, hopeful.

   "Probably," Craig said, and he was sorry to leave the relative sanctuary of the bathroom, but he did, slipping back out into the chaos again. At least, it felt chaotic to him. This time he was unable to see anyone he knew. The VIP area was towards the back. Craig decided to try again.

   He found it after a few minutes of skirting around groups of people holding drinks, passing by tucked-away alcoves full of men with their arms around the shoulders of slender girls, though some had their arms around the shoulders of other men. Kyle's fans, probably. Craig flashed the wristband he'd been given and was allowed inside, onto a raised platform that overlooked the dance floor and, in some areas, provided a view of the entire club. It had enough seats to accommodate maybe fifty people, though it was very sparsely populated.

   Cartman, Stan and Kyle were seated around a low table with four girls. Kyle looked bored out of his mind, drinking Sprite and checking his phone. Stan, of course, had a glass of water, and was doing a pretty good job at feigning interest in some story Cartman was loudly telling, though he seemed relieved when Craig approached and tapped him on the shoulder.

   "Have you seen Clyde?" Craig yelled over the music. Some of the girls looked at him. Craig wondered if they were the same ones from the bathroom; they couldn't be, but in the dim lighting, they were disturbingly similar-looking. He wondered if any of them were Nuggets cheerleaders.

   "What?" said Stan, mouthing.

   "Clyde," Craig repeated, louder, at the top of his voice.

   "He's over there, dude, but I wouldn't disturb him if I were you," Stan yelled back, gesturing, and Craig's heart sank. He was tempted not to turn around, but without really meaning to, he did.

   Clyde was tucked into a little alcove with a woman in his lap, and Craig felt sick when he recognised her. The roadie with peroxide hair. They were kissing, Clyde's hands roaming her back, and as Craig watched they broke apart and she whispered something to him, her lips brushing his ear.

   "So then," Cartman was saying to the girls, "I'm like, listen bitch, if the Grammy should've been yours then why is our name on the base? Huh? And then Catherine Zeta Jones comes over--" 

   One girl gasped; a redhead. "Catherine Zeta Jones was at the Grammys?"

   "Of course Catherine Zeta Jones was at the Grammys, whatever, so she's like--"

   Craig closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was still real. His legs felt suddenly weak, and so he sat down in the vacant seat that he supposed had been Kenny's. It was still warm, and he found himself staring at the bubbles that rose in Kyle's glass, clinging to the sides. He shrugged Clyde's jacket off, letting it drape over the back of the chair.

   "This party sucks," he said, tonelessly, to deflect any suspicion that he might be having an emotional crisis. There was a strange numbness spreading through him, though his heart was racing, and he realised his fists were clenched where they were resting on his thighs; not in anger, but out of a need to ground himself.

   He mostly felt confused. Not confused by what was happening -- it was plain as day -- but confused by the fact that it had induced this gut-churning combination of dread and embarrassment in him. That he'd been reduced to this state of vulnerability in front of Stan and Kyle, of all people. Even after Bebe and college and Jaclyn and the crying through the wall, he had built up no resistance. The sinking feeling was exactly the same.

   "I know," Kyle replied, unexpectedly. "We don't even know these people."

   "We know some of them," Stan said.

   "Who?" Kyle asked, turning to him. "Who can you see right now that we know?"

   Stan glanced towards the glass barrier. "Wendy's down there. I can see her hat, kind of."

   "Oh, great. So your high school girlfriend is here. Wow, what a great party! Our whole social circle is represented!"

   "Jesus, just drink your Sprite," Stan said, without venom, and rolled his eyes.

   Craig immediately felt sick of their shit, but he wasn't ready to leave. He didn't trust his legs not to give out again, for one thing. He could still sort of see Clyde in his periphery; or rather, he could see vague motion, movement, and white-blonde hair. He thought of Bebe and Wendy, dancing and enjoying themselves, and Token, wherever he was. Was this really his life now? Chained to Clyde, his emotions at the mercy of someone seemingly _intent_  on working his way through the continental United States penis-first?

   Craig sighed deeply. No one noticed, and this made him feel somehow worse.

   Cartman got to his feet suddenly. Or at least, it felt sudden to Craig; he'd probably taken his time to wrap up his story, but Craig hadn't been listening at all.

   "We are retiring," he announced, drawing himself up to his full height. "Tell Kenny he'd better avoid our room for a while."

   To Craig's mild horror, all four of the girls got up and left with him. Stan and Kyle watched them totter away, expressionless. Then Kyle downed the rest of his Sprite, and Stan settled back in his chair, knees far apart. Craig found himself annoyed by his posture. Kyle sat with his legs crossed at the ankle, and Craig noticed that his lower calves were actually exposed, in a stylish way, his jeans cut high enough to show some of his bright red leg hair. That was annoying too.

   "Thanks a lot for inviting me," he said, making no effort to hide how unimpressed he was. Looking around, there was literally nothing in the VIP area except mostly-empty tables and some decor. On the far wall there was an abstract painting of some green swirls. Nothing to look at except Stan or Kyle or Clyde and the girl in his lap.

   "Don't even start," said Kyle. "You can leave any time you want. We're stuck here until the end of the night. Do you want this?" he added, picking up the drink Cartman had left behind.

   Craig eyed it warily. There was about a mouthful of amber liquid left, pooling at the bottom. "No, I don't, because that's disgusting."

   "Just checking," Kyle said, before emptying it out into a nearby potted fern.

   "Kyle, come on," Stan said.

   Kyle shook his head, placing the short glass back on the table. "I can't believe he drinks this shit in front of you. There's insensitive and then there's just cruel, you know?"

   "It's not that big of a deal." As if to prove a point, Stan took a controlled sip of his water. "I mean, I'm not going to suddenly snap and drink Cartman's gross leftovers, okay. I have self-control."

   Craig prickled at the mention of the word 'leftovers'. He put his head in his hands for a moment, the room starting to spin. 

   Kyle shrugged. "At a party this boring, anything could happen. Personally I wish I was getting drunk right now instead of sitting here watching Clyde trying to fuck that roadie through their clothes." He picked up his empty glass and looked into it, disappointed. "What was her name, again? Stephanie?"

   "Steph," Stan said. "Right?"

   "I feel like I'm dying right here in this chair," Craig said.

   "What?" said Kyle. He turned to Stan and said, "I want another Sprite."

   "I said, I should go before it gets much later," Craig said. "I'll see you around." 

   He stood, and contemplated leaving the jacket behind. Then a hundred possibilities of what might happen to it ran through his head, and he picked it up and put it back on, irritated with himself. Clyde loved that stupid jacket. Craig itched to remove it as he rattled his way down the stairs and past the bouncer, past the bathrooms, through the crowd, and out of the main door.

   He blinked, finding that it was actually brighter outside than inside, though night had fallen. Their bus was parked out back, on the street, and he went around to the side door in a hurry. He kicked a tyre, but not too hard. Then he attempted to open the door and found that it was locked.

   "Motherfucker," Craig said to himself, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his jacket. Clyde's jacket. He closed his eyes tight, trying to take deep and even breaths. It had gotten colder, the chill in the air attacking from all sides, and he was immediately sort of homesick.

   Was it something about South Park girls? Working in a shoe store, Clyde talked to dozens of them on a regular basis and never got so much as a phone number scribbled on a receipt. For Craig it had been a blessing, but now seemingly every woman Clyde encountered wanted him. It was like they'd all suddenly tuned into whatever frequency Craig had been set at for the last decade. Or maybe it was just the charm and the glamour of being a touring musician -- maybe it had nothing to do with Clyde himself at all. Craig couldn't decide if that made him feel better or worse. He kicked the tyre again, harder, and then went to the cab.

   Butters was sitting up front, on the phone. Craig hammered on the window, shivering, not just because of the cold. Butters startled and looked up, then hit a button on the dash and gave a thumbs up. Craig retreated back to the side door and let himself inside, wondering if he'd throw up again. How dramatic. He had no real reason to care if Clyde currently had some girl squirming in his lap in the midst of the shittiest afterparty in the world. He was not jilted. He was not sixteen. He'd resigned himself years ago to this -- he'd known that Clyde's continued presence in his life came at a price, and maybe always would.

   Remembering that he'd brought this on himself did not make him feel better. Craig removed his shoes, shrugged the jacket off, threw it onto Clyde's bunk, and then climbed into his own and pulled the curtains shut, needlessly. 

   He had three more months of this, he thought as he buried under his duvet. Thirty-four more shows of this. Fuck Clyde, Craig decided. This was the summer of his life -- he wasn't going to spent it hiding away. He'd find a way to enjoy it somehow. He'd figure something out.

   Craig rolled over to face the wall, and then reached for his phone and called the first number on his speed dial.

   "Craig?"

   "Hey," Craig said. He sounded like he was a week into the flu -- pathetically ill, needy and hopeless. If his voice cracked, the embarrassment would kill him.

   "What's going on?" his mom said. She sounded half asleep, and Craig felt guilty, though it wasn't even midnight yet. "Is everything okay?"

   "Fine." Craig balanced the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pulled his blanket up over his head. "We just played in front of thousands of people at the Pepsi Center."

   "What?"

   "We opened for Moop tonight. In Denver," he said. "We're touring with them. We're travelling the country."

   "Sweetie, you know I can never tell when you're joking."

   "I'm not joking. I thought that bastard Eric Cartman might pull it out from under us somehow, but he didn't. It really happened."

   "Oh! Well, congratulations, then," she said, seeming to wake up a little. "...Are you okay, though, honey?"

   Craig sighed. "It's been kind of a stressful day. But I wanted to talk to you. I need some, like, motherly advice."

   "Wow. I don't think I've ever been asked for motherly advice before."

   "Yeah." Craig traced the panelling on the wall with one finger, wondering how to phrase his predicament without sounding overly dramatic or giving too much away. Craig loved his family, but none of them could keep a secret to save themselves, including him. "I need to get rid of my feelings for someone. Immediately," he said.

   "Oh? Who?"

   "Mom."

   "Okay, well, why? Is he with someone else?"

   "Yes." Craig tried to keep his breaths even, though it was hard. "He's with someone else and he's very happy with her."

   "Oh, Craig."

   "So? What do I do?"

   "I don't think it's possible to just make feelings go away just because you want them to," she said. Craig didn't reply. "...What have you tried?"

   "I don't know." He rolled over, rubbing at his eyes. "Sometimes I try to remind myself that he's not that great, objectively. But it doesn't matter. I actually think that makes it worse. Because then it's like, what could he possibly do to put me off? What would it even take?"

   A pause. "Is this about Tweek?"

   "God." Craig exhaled. "That did sound like I was talking about Tweek. I guess that's just my type. Guys who nobody knows what I see in them. And even I don't."

   "That was a long time ago."

   "Yes," Craig said. "I know."

   His mother yawned. "You were, what? Fourteen? You two were so precious, you know. Do you remember that dance you went to in eighth grade, and you had those matching suits?"

   Craig sighed. He did remember. It was some kind of Spring-themed ordeal, where the girls wore short dresses even though the snow was ankle-deep, and he and Tweek had somehow been coerced into matching outfits, a joint effort on the parts of their mothers. Craig's suit had been blue with a green tie, and Tweek's had been the reverse, and Craig's mother had stubbornly kept a picture of them on the Tucker family mantle until it was replaced by Craig's high school graduation photo.

   The picture had been embarrassing and the night had been terrible. Tweek had downed three cups of fruit juice, doubted the integrity of it, made himself sick in the bathroom, and then wanted to go home. Those were the end times, and in hindsight, it was obvious.

   "Why are we talking about Tweek?" Craig asked, coming back to the present.

    His mom paused. "Were you not talking about Tweek?"

   "I might have been," Craig said, dumbly, unsure of what conclusion she'd jump to if he said 'no' outright.

   "Oh." Over the phone, Craig heard another yawn. "Honey, it's late."

   "Okay." He clutched his phone tighter, feeling like there were so many things he hadn't been able to say. "Just-- I wasn't prepared for this? I thought love was for old people."

   "What?"

   "I thought love was for old people."

   "You know your dad and I love each other, right?"

   "Yeah, I do," Craig said. "Goodnight, mom."

   "Night, Craig."

   The line went dead, and Craig rolled over onto his back and put his hands over his eyes to block out the light that was creeping in from somewhere. He was at least sure that Clyde would have the common sense not to bring any girls back to the bus; partly due to Token's personal space rule, and partly because he had the top bunk. Maybe they'd go to the bathroom at the club instead. Maybe they'd receive the same inexplicably warm welcome Craig had -- maybe Clyde would cry again and those girls would comfort him like Craig hadn't. Craig willed himself not to think about it. Eventually, his heartbeat went slow and he slept. When he woke next, the bus was in motion and Clyde was snoring overhead, and somehow the sound was comforting, keeping Craig hovering on the precipice of consciousness until he drifted off again.


	5. space case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special shoutout to nat for keeping me sane the past six months, beta'ing this chapter, and being the creator of [this](http://aloeveraplanet.tumblr.com/post/162263847964/drummer-craig-as-seen-in-the-absolutely-gorgeous) wonderful art that brings me so much joy. <3
> 
> there's a new implied/referenced drug use tag, which will start in this chapter and continue into the rest of the story. it's nothing shocking or graphic, but please take note of the warning anyway.

   The first thing Craig did when he woke up the next morning was make sure that his bandmates were all in their bunks. The bus was moving and it was bright outside, and he'd just woken from a strange nightmare that he could not quite recall -- something about a quicksand dancefloor and being locked inside of a public bathroom stall. It had left him with the the sinking, seeping fear that somebody had failed to make it back in time and had been abandoned, left behind miles down the highway.

   He crept out of bed, socked feet silent on the carpet. Craig held onto the wall for support as he stood up, the whole bus jolting as it went over a pothole. He wasn't cruel or stupid enough to outright throw the curtains open, but he peeked in enough to catch a glimpse of Token's arm and Bebe's hair in their respective bunks. At Clyde's curtain, he hesitated. He was still groggy and heavy-headed from a restless sleep, and it was slowly coming back to him that not everything that had happened the night before had been a dream.

   He didn't have to touch the curtain. Clyde's breathing was loud enough to hear from this short distance, and it sounded peaceful. Everyone was accounted for. Craig should have felt relieved by this, he knew, but instead he found himself clutching at the wall, dizzy. It was hitting him, suddenly, that the person who'd been left behind wasn't Clyde or Token or Bebe -- it was him. The unease lingered, the walls seeming to close in around him. He couldn't decide if he wanted to go back to bed or try to convince Butters to pull over so he could hyperventilate on the side of the road. In the end he went to the kitchenette, took a bottle of water from the little fridge, drank half of it in a state of forced calm, and then locked himself in the bathroom and attempted to wash himself down with wet wipes, in lieu of a shower.

   Showers always helped. Craig had often considered the shower his one refuge sole in a home that was always brimming with arguments which, whether he was or was not involved in them, made the whole place feel like a warzone. Now, it felt too early to sink to a low such as this, and the wipes left him smelling like a freshly changed baby. His hair was a lost cause, and Craig was at least glad nobody would bat an eyelash at him wearing his hat all day.

   Tulsa turned out to be humid and hot, and after their arrival they had a free evening bankrolled by the fifty dollars Bebe had been given the previous night, as a small advance. They decided to go to Denny's. Craig wasn't exactly in the mood for it, but luckily it was just the four of them. As soon as their drinks order had been taken, Bebe dominated the conversation by sharing stories of what she'd seen the night before. She was sitting next to Craig, boxing him in. Across from them, Clyde and Token were quiet, eating and listening, presumably because they hadn't seen much at the party except the girls they'd found.

   During a lull in the conversation, Craig volunteered, with little enthusiasm, "I guess Cartman had some kind of five-some with some girls he left with."

   "Orgy," Clyde corrected him, too loudly for Denny's.

   "What?" Craig said. Hearing that word out of Clyde's mouth turned his stomach over. There was a tear in the fabric of the booth he was sitting on, stuffing poking out, and the grease smell of the place was starting to get to him, paired with the metallic tang of the honey-mustard sauce he was for some reason dipping fries into periodically, even though he was not at all hungry.

   "If there's more than four people, it's an orgy," said Clyde. He ate a piece of chilli from his finger in a knowing way. The stuff was falling off of his burger in globs, going everywhere. "It goes: threesome, foursome, orgy. That's it."

   "Okay, well, great," said Craig, as Token laughed behind his hand. It didn't matter, the story was ruined now -- not that there was much left to tell -- and the revised terminology made it sound somehow even more disgusting than before. 

   Everything had seemed kind of disgusting to Craig, since the previous night. Including his club sandwich, which he'd only ordered because it was the driest thing on the menu. He ate it slowly, chewing every bite until it was pulp. Despite this, he doubted his ability to keep it down. On the walk back to the bus he trailed behind his friends, taking video of a Dalmatian which was resting on the sidewalk across the street, its owner situated on a nearby bench.

   Craig continued to avoid them by staying curtained in his bunk and pretending to sleep for most of the next day. It was Wednesday, and he wanted to enjoy the fact that he was able to lay in bed for as long as he wanted, even with the sun streaming in through the tiny window and the sound of his bandmates waking up, running the sink to wash their faces, and spraying their hair with some kind of sweet, pineapple-smelling powder that made Craig cough and almost draw attention to himself.

   Wednesdays were the day he and Clyde had previously been assigned to open up the store, probably because Roger Donovan didn't trust either of them to do it on their own. It meant getting up before seven, which to Craig was insanity. They'd make the trek to the mall while the sun was still barely up, kick the snow off their boots in the parking lot and then get an early and greasy breakfast at M-Burger before heading upstairs to the store, unlocking the doors and turning on the lights. Craig would spend the entire day trapped in monotony, kneeling on the floor and helping elderly people tie their shoes or standing behind the register wondering what his mom would make for dinner that night, and if Clyde would decide to tag along and then subsequently follow Craig upstairs, to drink a few beers and watch a few _Star Wars_  movies. This routine was also a kind of monotony, but the kind Craig was happy to have gotten used to.

   As he lay in his bunk, he realised he would probably never have a day like that again. He wasn't entirely pleased or upset about it. It was bittersweet, he decided, and rolled over facing a gap in the curtains through which he could just barely make out Token sitting on his bunk, typing on his iPad. Token noticed him, and their eyes met. Token raised his eyebrows, but then he went back to what he was doing. 

   Craig's stomach growled. He'd wait until everyone was gone and then raid the fridge, he decided; maybe if they still had milk left, he could have some cereal in one of the empty tupperware containers they'd been using as bowls. Then Clyde shimmed past his bunk, the backs of his knees at Craig's eye level, and he rolled over again, wishing they were driving so that the sound of the road could distract him, and that his phone was not dead again so that he could hear anything but the sound of his bandmates discussing their set for that night, quietly but not quietly enough, deciding unanimously that they would play _Leftovers_  again.

   That night, Craig did not bother to attend the party after the show, though it was rumoured not to be so high-profile this time. He felt like he had not attended the show itself, either. Physically, he had, but mentally he was still in bed with the blankets over his head, briefly emerging to soak up the energy and the endorphines while he was actually playing, only to dip again when it was over. When the place had cleared out, Craig stayed behind to load the equipment back in the vans, and found himself clearing away empty plastic cups backstage with Butters and some staff members from the venue, feeling helpful but also sad. He told himself he wasn't hiding, though he kind of was -- metaphorically hiding from the tidal wave of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm him, and physically hiding from anyone who might notice and prod at him until the dam broke.

   Still, they'd gone over pretty well in Tulsa. Butters had made a few adjustments to their set-up, and they sounded better this time, though the crowd did not scream quite like they had in Denver. Over the last few days, their hits on Youtube had indeed skyrocketed, as had their follower count on Twitter. The shirts they'd had made were almost sold out. Craig crossed paths with Tweek while they were both loading equipment back into the van, and saw that he was wearing one, but decided not to comment.

  
-v-

  
   "Fuck me," was Clyde's reaction when they walked through the doors of the illustrious Hilton hotel in downtown Chicago. Arrangements had been made to spend the week here, and this was already the most expensive trip Craig had never paid for. The lobby stretched out before them, shiny and sleek, the kind of room someone had clearly been afforded a fat paycheck just to pick the vases for. Craig was sure they must look like a pack of homeless people who had just wandered in off the street, but luckily, Kyle had met them at the door and was up ahead at the check-in desk, handling everything with a flash of his gold credit card between his fingers.

   "Why would they do this?" Token asked, shifting his backpack to his other shoulder uneasily. They were lingering by the door, huddled in their little group. This was a place where presidents stayed; it felt wrong to just walk in. "I thought they hated us. Why not just make us sleep in our van? That's what it's for."

   "Maybe they have so much money that it doesn't even matter," Bebe suggested. Clyde nodded his agreement, though distantly; he was eyeing a nearby armchair hesitantly, as if he wanted to sit down in it, but was intimidated.

   "Who cares? I'm starving and I need a shower," Craig told the group. The endorphines from last night's show had well and truly worn off, but Craig had managed to sit on his bed with his curtains open for the majority of the morning while they were still travelling. Even when Clyde had woken up at ten and almost kicked him in the face by accident while climbing down from his bunk, Craig had not hidden, though he had been tempted to. He still had a lingering sense of rawness, and sadness, whenever he looked at Clyde; that, and the sense of impending doom, because he knew that any second, Clyde was going to bring up his last conquest in Denver, brag about it, ask Craig what he thought about the hotness level of the girl he'd chosen to hook up with, and then, presumably, never mention it again.

   It was easier to cling to other feelings and push them to the surface instead. Like hunger, and griminess.

   Bebe looked him over, unimpressed. Craig supposed she was starving and needed a shower too. "Weren't you the one who was pissed off in Kansas because Kenny paid for our hotel room?"

   "Well, he never mentioned it again," Craig said. "So I guess that's just how it is now."

   Clyde was quiet suddenly, on his phone. Craig wondered who he was texting when all of his friends were in the room with him. He pushed the thought away, trying to concentrate instead on admiring a nearby geometric light fixture until Kyle came to collect them again, all but herding them into an elevator like children on a field trip.

   "How come we're staying so long here?" Craig asked Kyle when the elevator started to move. He seemed almost fussy, busy, like he had too many things on his plate right now to entertain that question. He was wearing tight jeans and seemed preoccupied with passing out the room key cards carefully, one at a time.

   "Because we know people here," Kyle said, "and because it's a nice place." When he raised his head to look at Craig, his curls bounced. He handed over the last key card and said, "Haven't you always wanted to go to Chicago?"

   Craig hesitated, perturbed by how direct this question was. He was pretty sure that he had in fact never wanted such a thing, and he had no idea why Kyle would assume otherwise. "For what?" he asked, pocketing the card he'd been given.

   "I don't know, to see things." Kyle shook his head, already exasperated. "Parks and things. The zoo."

   "Yeah, the zoo," Craig said. From the corner of his eye he could see that Clyde was still texting, and it was rapidly getting on his nerves. He was also wearing his same jacket again, smelling of Febreeze, and Craig felt like this should be gross, but it wasn't. He looked at Kyle again, trying to find something to talk about. Chicago. Zoos, museums -- Craig couldn't hold a conversation about those. "What about the pizza?"

   "I don't want to hear about pizza right now," said Kyle. He looked down at himself, concerned, and put a hand on his stomach, which to Craig appeared flat, as if Kyle had not eaten yet today. Maybe that explained his mood. "Our manager is flying out to meet us while we're here, and I'm still recovering from those cheese fries."

   Once again, they were given two rooms to share, and once again, Craig was forced to deal with Hurricane Bebe, who had already imported her shampoo, shower gel, loofah and two different razors into the bathroom by the time Craig was granted entry. He was determined to take his time, washing his hair twice and scrubbing every inch of his body, and then guiltily jerking off over the specific way Clyde had said 'fuck me' in the lobby, and then cleaning himself off again with a daring squirt of Bebe's scented lotion. Out of the shower, he shaved his face and brushed his teeth, put his jeans back on, and emerged feeling clean and untouchable, breathing in a deep lungful of Hilton air.

   As it turned out, they had been given a nice room. Craig hadn't taken it in before, in his eagerness to shower, but it boasted two big beds, a desk, a TV, and some weird modern art on one feature wall. Token was also there, and also freshly showered, but fully dressed. He was sitting on Bebe's bed with her as she braided her damp hair into plaits, and they were laughing about something.

   "I just really want to order room service," Token was saying. "I want to know if they deliver it on one of those little carts or not."

   Bebe snorted. "Your parents never took you to a hotel before?" she asked, in an entirely rhetorical way. She flipped one completed braid over her shoulder and started working on the other.

   "They never let me order room service. They think it's overpriced. Like thirty dollars for a cheeseburger, or something."

   "Well they never had Kyle Broflovski bankrolling their trips! You should go for it. Get me a steak and charge it to the room."

   "Get me one, too," Craig said, announcing his presence. He felt somewhat insecure, standing in the middle of the room half-naked in front of two of the best-looking people he knew, so he made his way to his bag and started rooting around for a t-shirt. There was only one clean one; a trip to a laundromat was well overdue.

   Token seemed unsure about this idea. "Should we all get steak?"

   "I don't even really like steak," Bebe said, frowning.

   "We could go down to the restaurant," Craig suggested, pulling his shirt on over his head. "I saw wine glasses on the tables. I want to drink Dr Pepper out of one."

   "But the cart, guys. The entire point was the cart."

   "Why don't you get breakfast tomorrow morning instead?" Bebe said. "Clyde will love you."

   "Oh, great. A romantic breakfast in bed with Clyde, that sounds perfect." Token rolled his eyes. "Just what I want after three nights listening to him snore."

   "It's not like you have to room with him," Craig pointed out.

   "Yeah, I do, actually. Otherwise Bebe has to room with a straight guy."

   Craig thought about contesting this, but didn't. He really didn't mind rooming with Bebe, especially not when Clyde was on some kind of rampage, chatting up every girl he met, and bringing them back to hotel rooms for sex that he cried after.

   Craig wondered if he would ever again be able to stay in a hotel without thinking about that.

   Token did not order any steaks, and went back to his own room to let Bebe get ready to pop songs which blared from her iPhone. Craig got under his crisp, fresh-smelling sheets, and clicked around on his laptop for a while, taking the opportunity to back up all of the footage he'd taken so far and then delete it from his phone to make room for more.

   As he did so, his mouse hovered over the clip from Kansas, with its incriminating black thumbnail. In the end, he decided to leave it alone. In a way, he wanted to remember how unbelievably terrible he had felt in that dingy hotel room. It had been so easy for Clyde to crush him, not once or twice, but now three times, and Craig was beginning to wonder if it would ever end.

   He wanted to blame Clyde, for his propensity for trampling over other people's feelings so callously, but he knew he couldn't bring himself to do so. It was tempting, but unrealistic, because if he'd really wanted to, Craig could've gone to school in Vermont and never spoken to another South Park resident again. He could've worked at some other establishment at the mall, and made new friends, and never again allowed Clyde to fall asleep beside him in his bed. Nobody had forced him to keep taking what meager handouts Clyde gave him, in the form of eyefuls of naked skin or borrowed worn clothing. To keep waiting for things to happen, and then feeling like shit when they did not.

   After thinking about that, Craig decided he wanted to do nothing that night but stay in bed. So when Bebe asked, he rejected the offer to join his friends for Chinese food, even though Butters had been invited along and would presumably be somehow coaxed into covering the cheque.

   "I'm just really tired," he said when she gave him a disappointed look, but when she was gone, he realised that he actually kind of was. He kicked off his jeans and attempted a nap, but woke up only twenty minutes later, feeling overheated. He got up and paced the room like a restless ghost, before calling his sister and demanding a Facetime session with Spot. In exchange, he showed her the view from his window. He knew Ruby hadn't been out of state since a family trip to Disney when they were kids, and he was kind of gloating, though he could really only capture the street below, which consisted of warm yellow lights and a few restaurants; some people loitering in the street, smoking or talking on their phones; some pigeons.

   "I bet Moop are all up on one of the top floors," Ruby said, on speakerphone.

   "Probably," Craig agreed. His room wasn't high above ground level, and he remembered what Cartman had said in Denver, about wanting to keep their distance.

   "How does that make you feel, Craig?" Ruby asked.

   "Fine." Craig rested his head against the window. The glass was cool against his skin, and he wondered if he was coming down with some kind of fever. "I think we're more likely to survive if there's a fire."

   "They could put the fire out with the water from their hot tub." When he looked down he could see Ruby on-screen looking impassive, sitting on his bedroom carpet and leaning against the side of his desk. "They could use groupies as human shields." She turned the camera back around, showing Spot in the corner of her enclosure, asleep in her hammock. "Spot says goodnight."

   Craig sighed. "I already miss her so much. It kind of sucks here," he said, and then remembered how much South Park sucked in comparison, and how much better he'd feel when he was onstage again, not alone in a hotel room, preoccupied with his own directionless love life. "But not really."

   "Well, it sucks here too," Ruby said. After a beat, she added, "Do you miss me yet?"

   "No," Craig said, though he did, a little bit.

   "Yeah?" she said. "Well, before you left, I put a live mouse somewhere in your van." 

   "No you didn't."

   "No, I didn't," Ruby conceded. "But if it wasn't animal cruelty I would have," she said, and then hung up, leaving Craig alone in the dark with his okay view of the street. He took a short recording of it for the tour diary, and then went back to bed. He was still awake hours later, when Bebe came back drunk and crawled in with him by mistake, smelling faintly of lo mien and Margaritas. Then she groaned and hugged him close in a way that must have been on purpose. Craig tensed, but then relaxed and he let it happen, because he felt like he probably needed it.

  
-v-

  
   On his first morning in Chicago, Craig awoke with renewed vigour and a single-minded determination to never again listen as Clyde unknowingly performed a song about himself. He dressed and left while Bebe was still dead asleep, and spent the morning in the lounge, sitting at a table drinking ice water and chewing on the end of his pen, doing his best to fill the blank pages of his notebook. He started with keywords: vague concepts. Staying away from sore subjects like heartbreak and unrequited love left him without much to work with. Sprite, old guitars, Denny's. In the end he'd filled sixteen pages and drawn several diagrams, but lacked any actual lyrics. Still, he felt this was progress.

   As he was getting up to leave, his phone buzzed with two texts. Craig sat down again in his seat, made self-conscious by the gesture, and drained the last of his water before he put his phone on the table and leaned over it. The texts were from an unknown number, an occurrence that rarely happened in Craig's life. He looked up just once, scanning the room. Then, curious, he opened them. They read,

_hey man. got an amazing surprise 4 u soon!_

_really wish i wasn't so fuckin busy so i could hook u up right now :(_

   Craig poised his fingers to reply, but then hesitated. It sounded vaguely like some kind of scam, and as he was thinking this his phone came to life again. It was a phone call from Bebe, which Craig ignored. He'd arranged to meet them by the front desk at noon, and he already knew how late he was without having to hear it from her. He stood fully this time, tossed his notebook and phone into his backpack, and left in a hurry.

   The rest of his day was spent with Bebe and Token, trekking around the city streets and dutifully filming everything he was pointed at. Clyde had declined to come along because he was "sick", which Craig took to mean "hungover", and yet as they went along he found himself doubting even this likely explanation. How crazy, he wondered -- how completely _insane_  would it be if he recruited someone to keep tabs on the blonde roadie Clyde had taken such a liking to, the one Craig preferred to categorize by hair colour than consider an actual, three-dimensional person? To find out if she visited Clyde's hotel room, and how often, and for what purpose? Butters would go along with it, Craig thought. Not only that, but Butters would assume Craig had some higher motivation than being wildly, childishly jealous of a woman he had never even spoken to before. The idea was vaguely appealing until he remembered that Butters would also tell everyone else on the tour about the whole thing, and Craig wouldn't even gain anything except more information on an affair he didn't want to know about in the first place.

 _Just grow up,_ he told himself, whenever he felt a twinge of envy.  _Just grow up and move on._

   It only took Craig around ten minutes to decide that Chicago was not for him. Walking among the skyscrapers made him feel claustrophobic, and even as they approached the shores of the lake he couldn't shake the feeling that whenever they returned to the city blocks, it would be too soon. They visited the aquarium first. Craig felt compelled to record the walk there, through the meticulously clean and breathtakingly beautiful parks, catching glimpses of the shimmering lake in the distance, until it was not so distant. He felt, uncharacteristically, like he was working. Bebe insisted on spending two hours looking at sea life, with her nose practically to the glass. Craig mostly just looked at his watch.

   Afterwards they walked the lakefront trail. It wasn't as crowded as Craig imagined it would be on nicer days, when dark rainclouds weren't encroaching, but people still splashed and swam on the beach, cycled by, and sat on benches and towels atop the sand. Craig could not believe the number of people who contented themselves just lounging around, without a care in the world. Token and Bebe were talking, but Craig wasn't really listening; he had taken out his camera again and was taking in the scene through his viewfinder. Before them, the water stretched on forever. Behind them, buildings stretched up.

   When the rain started, they ducked into the closest restaurant and shared plates of tacos while sitting in red plastic chairs, too tired to really hold any conversation and mostly focused on their respective phones. At one point, Token passed around a Youtube video someone had uploaded of them performing in Tulsa. Craig watched it intently, chewing on his straw. He could not actually see himself in the frame, and in fact the camera was shaking so badly that he couldn't see much of anything, and the sound quality was horrific, and Craig was disappointed when the video ended and the title of it flashed up in the corner. _Greg and the Guys_ , it said, followed by the date of the show. To his left, Bebe was laughing. Craig put his head down on the table and made a guttural sound to signal his exhaustion, which made her laugh harder.

   During the next couple of days, Craig did not spend enough time at the hotel to see much of anyone, and he liked it that way. He spent his days tagging along ten feet behind everyone else, experimenting with cinematic shots, wondering if it might be time to invest in a drone of some description. At night he sat with his friends in restaurant booths, all of them nursing sore legs and feet and backs, trying to feign interest while he was updated continuously on their number of followers on social media. Craig wondered how quickly these people would forget about them as time passed and no album came forth, only empty promises and a terrible demo. Sometimes he pulled out his notebook and scribbled in it during these dinners; and then again, in bed at night, until Bebe told him to stop humming to himself and turn the light outs. Then he was forced to lay his head on the pillow, close his eyes, and accept that nothing productive may ever come of all of his messy feelings, and what then?

   He'd fall asleep eventually, into bizarre dreams where he was on the tour bus again, en route to South Park. His bandmates -- his friends -- were all on board with him, but sulky, and silent, stony-cold in his direction, though he never found out why. Then he'd be woken again after what felt like minutes, with some new list of sights to see through his viewfinder, and no great spark of inspiration, and a hollow understanding that he was no more over Clyde than he had been the day before.

  
-v-

  
   Craig was alone and situated in a pizzeria when his phone lit up with another mystery text. He looked around, feeling slightly paranoid. It was dinnertime and the place was dimly lit, tealight candles flickering on varnished dark-wood tables. He'd been the first to arrive, and was sitting in a booth with four untouched menus and the Sprite he'd ordered to take an Aspirin with. His head was pounding a little, just from the exhaustion of it all, and he was glad for the distraction because he'd been thinking, vaguely, about sinking down in his seat and just taking a nap right there and then.

   He heard the restaurant's front door open and glanced over, not even bothering to feign excitement. Bebe, Token and Clyde were there, speaking to the host. They had all showered and gotten changed since Craig had seen them in the afternoon. He'd spent the interim by himself, editing his video footage in a nearby Starbucks, tucked in a corner and drinking overpriced bottled water, and that was what he'd dressed for. He put his phone away and swallowed down half of his Sprite and another Aspirin pill as Bebe slid into the booth next to him, grinning.

   "Sorry we're late," Token said, though he didn't sound particularly sorry. He lingered at the end of the end of the table while Clyde seated himself across from Craig, and then he took his own seat, more gracefully. "We ended up having drinks with the guys at the hotel."

   "Really?" Craig said.

   They all took menus. Craig did too, though he already knew what he wanted to order. He'd been eager to try an authentic deep dish pizza since Kyle had confessed that he would not be allowed to. 

   "Business drinks," Bebe said, a little loudly. She'd had too many, Craig surmisied. "Their label is already thinking of offering us a record deal!"

   "How do you know?"

   "Stan said," Clyde told him. He'd shown up without a coat for once in his life, half-drenched, and when he followed this statement up by pushing his damp hair away from his forehead, Craig looked away sharply.

   "He also mentioned that their label's staff is comprised entirely of soul-sucking vultures and that we shouldn't ever sign with them," Token added without looking up from his menu. "But it was still good news, I think."

   "Well." Craig crossed his arms and stared down at the table. There was a damp trail where he'd dragged his glass, and he thought about wiping it up, but didn't. "I've been writing a song."

   "Oh!" Bebe set down the menu she was reading, the flickering candlelight catching her eyes. "Can we hear it?"

   "It's not done," Craig said.

   "That's okay."

   "I mean, it's not-- I didn't even really start it." With some consternation, Craig played with a frayed corner of his laminated menu. "I was doing some concept work."

   A waiter appeared to take their drinks order. In Craig's pocket, his phone vibrated again to remind him of his unopened text, and he checked it with some trepidation after he'd asked for another Sprite. It was from the same unknown number as before, but this one only read 'SNEAK PREVIEW', and had an image attached. Craig opened it, and regretted it instantly. It was an extremely zoomed-in photograph, the frame entirely filled with indelicate folds of wrinkled pink-ish skin.

   "Oh, my god," Craig said out loud, fumbling in his attempt to get that picture off of his screen. The others all looked at him, and he felt himself flush, avoiding their eyes. "Whose number is this?"

   "What?" Token asked, leaning on the table. "What happened?"

   "I-- uh," Craig said, attempting to compose himself. He looked at his phone again. Sneak preview. Christ. "I just got a weird text from a number I don't recognise."

   "Let me get my phone," Bebe said, ducking to grab her bag from underneath the table. Once she had, Craig read the number out and waited as she typed it. "Oh," she said after a moment. "It says it's Kenny's?"

   "Huh," Craig said. He looked at his screen again, perturbed. Then he tilted his head to the side, as if this angle would change something. It didn't. There was a family across the aisle, with two little kids, a boy and a girl no older than ten. Craig made sure to keep his voice down when he said, "I think Kenny just sent me a picture of his balls."

   "What! Let me see."

   "Well, I think it's just one," Craig corrected himself as Bebe all but snatched his phone out of his clammy hands, as he knew she would.

   She opened the image again with one tap of her finger. Craig watched her face as she grinned, and then her grin faded and was replaced by a disappointed frown. "Oh, no, gross. Whatever that is, it's not balls. Look at the colour. And what is _that_ thing?" she added, pointing to a fleshy little nub near the edge of the frame.

   "Genital warts?" Craig suggested.

   Bebe handed his phone back, wilting. "I hate you right now."

   From across the booth, Clyde cleared his throat. He was leaning on his elbows, somewhat awkwardly. "Wait, so-- it's not his balls?"

   "Personally, I really wouldn't underestimate the ability of someone's balls to look weird," Token chimed in.

   "Yeah." Craig sighed and leaned back, making the booth squeak. "It might be his balls."

   "Well which is it?" Clyde demanded.

   "I don't know, Clyde, why don't you look for yourself?"

   "Fine." Clyde put his full weight on the table and leaned in close to see the screen, rather than trying to take the phone from Craig's hand. He smelled like spearmint and Axe, Craig noticed sourly as he tilted the screen in Clyde's direction. He wished Kenny's balls were not there to ruin the moment.

   "Oh," Clyde said. He was staring at the screen, unblinking.

   "Right?" Craig prompted.

   "Huh." Clyde leaned away slightly. He tore his eyes from the phone to look at Craig, something off about his expression. Craig hoped it was concern. It was probably just disgust. "Do you think-- is he coming onto you?"

   Craig considered that. He had never received pictures of someone else's genitals before, and had not dreamed that he ever would. He glanced at the screen again, and regretted it. He swallowed hard and put his phone back in his pocket. Clyde was still looking at him -- everyone was.

   "I don't know," Craig said honestly. "I'm kind of still in shock."

   "I guess it's one way of telling someone you're interested," Token said. He was already reading the menu again; Bebe was as well, though she was smiling to herself.

   "Yeah," Clyde agreed, distantly.

  
-v-

  
   Craig had seen most of Chicago by the end of the week, he was sure, so on the day before they were due to play, he decided to stay in his room alone and rest. Rain hammered down on the windows outside as he sat up in bed, half-heartedly flicking through news sites on his phone while he waited for Bebe to get dressed and leave. When she was gone, he took a long bath, occasionally humming a melody that sounded good to him, only to realise that it belonged to a song that already existed. He got out wrinkled and drained the tub, and then spent hours lounging around in only a towel, trying to muster the nerve to text a picture back.

   He was unsure how to go about it. He lay on his bed upside-down, with his head hanging from the end of the mattress, and as the blood rushed to his temples he looked at the picture again, puzzling over it. Why the balls? Was this a thing? Craig didn't know. How would he? Possibly Clyde would have notified him -- he seemed to have his finger on the pulse of weird sex trends people were reporting via the internet. Kenny would almost certainly have the same knowledge. He had probably started some trends on his own. This could be one of them, for all Craig knew.

   Somewhere along the line, he had lost his initial sensitivity to the image. He continued to stare at it, zoning out as he wondered what the protocol for replying was. Should he send a picture of his own balls? That seemed unwise -- they were not as neatly groomed or as pink as these ones. Then again, his did not have any strange lumps. He eyed that little nub again. It seemed so out of place on the otherwise unblemished skin, and he wondered what it was, and if Kenny was aware of it. Craig didn't feel like he could point it out, because he'd left the text completely unanswered for five days, and when he remembered this he rolled over and covered his face, groaning.

   How was he supposed to move on from Clyde if he kept doing things like this? This was an invitation presented on a silver platter. Maybe he could finally have sex with someone. A man. Kenny. _Kenny_  -- who was not unattractive, though also not Craig's type, exactly, because his eyes were blue and not brown, and he was too skinny, and the last time Craig saw him he had vomited on the floor.

   But this was no time to be picky.

   Craig undid his towel and stared down at himself. The picture had not aroused him, which seemed reasonable, considering what it was. Thinking of sleeping with Kenny also had had no effect; it was mostly anxiety-inducing. He imagined that Kenny would be very experienced, and not aggressive, but perhaps pushy, and maybe impatient. Maybe so experienced and impatient, in fact, that waiting five days for someone to reply to a text was a dealbreaker.

   Craig took a deep breath, and nodded to himself.

   Then someone knocked on the door.

   Craig panicked and dropped his phone on the carpet, his heart racing. He had momentarily forgotten that Bebe existed, but when he didn't hear the click of her room key he relaxed a little, getting to his feet and wrapping his towel around his waist again. He answered the door boldly and half-naked. The idea that Kenny McCormick might be interested him was not entirely appealing, but it had boosted his confidence in a weird way, and as he opened the door he felt no shame.

   It was Tweek. He was hovering there in the hallway, wide-eyed and fidgety. Craig tightened his grip on his towel, and began to feel some shame.

   "What do you want?" he asked, deadpan, but by the time he had finished his sentence, Tweek had pushed him aside, clumsily shoved a paper Starbucks cup into Craig's hand, and made a dash for the bathroom, mumbling some kind of apology.

   Craig watched him go, perturbed. Tweek dropped to his knees beside the toilet without bothering to close the door, and Craig followed him into the bathroom, feeling self-conscious, like maybe he'd left something weird lying out. He scanned the room while Tweek retched shallowly. He hadn't -- he didn't even really own anything weird. But there were still bubbles in the tub, which was not ideal.

   "Jesus, Craig! Get out!" Tweek demanded from the floor, glaring over his shoulder.

   "Whose bathroom is this?" Craig replied, just to be difficult. He went instead to sit on his bed, where he could not see Tweek but could still hear him coughing. He glanced down at the coffee cup. It was light; almost empty, but still warm. Craig sat it on the bedside table and waited, feeling like an unwelcome guest in his own hotel room.

   He wondered if he should say something. By the time he'd decided that he probably should, Tweek emerged, looking woozy and tired and tremulous. He closed the bathroom door behind him and exhaled deeply. Then he seemed to notice Craig sitting there, and the fact that he was wearing only a towel. He stared openly at Craig's bare chest for several seconds, and then looked up guiltily, as if just now realising that he was intruding.

   "I thought I was going to throw up," Tweek said, pointlessly.

   Craig stared back at him. Tweek looked pale in a clammy way, and his skin had the kind of sheen that only came with nausea.

   "Well, I guess you shouldn't have stopped taking all of those medications cold turkey," was what Craig ended up saying in response.

   There was a silence. At a loss for what else to do, Craig picked up the Starbucks cup and held it out for Tweek to take. Tweek did. Craig noticed chipped black polish on his fingernails. He was not wearing his _Craig and those Guys_ shirt today.

   "You know what I think? Maybe it's food poisoning!" Tweek said, clutching the cup close to his chest. "Yesterday we ate hot dogs from a cart. I don't trust food that comes from a cart!"

   "It's obviously not food poisoning," Craig said. Tweek seemed startled, but didn't argue. There was a beat of silence, and then Craig asked, with emphasis, "Why are you _here_? Don't tell me you came to my room just to puke."

   "Oh. No, I came to give you this." Tweek stepped closer and then opened his other hand. A crumpled, sweaty fifty dollar bill fell into Craig's lap, onto his towel. "It's your allowance. From Wendy."

   "Thanks."

   "She sent me." 

   "Yeah."

   "Of all people." 

   Tweek said this as if he expected Craig to feel sorry for him, and Craig decided the last of his patience had been expended.

   "Can you leave so I can get dressed?" he said bluntly, setting the money aside and getting to his feet.

   "Don't be an asshole," Tweek said, frowning. He did leave, though, and when the door closed behind him, Craig felt distinctly alone with his thoughts and his phone and his own mostly-naked body and the reality of what he had almost just done.

   What _had_  he almost just done?

   He sat down heavily on the mattress and cast a disgusted look at his phone, which was still on the carpet. What had he been _thinking_? How had he momentarily convinced himself that Kenny McCormick -- or anyone else for that matter -- would actually want to receive a picture of his dick or any of the associated organs?

   Was he _delusional_?

   The whole thing was probably a joke. The kind of stupid, cruel joke Craig might play on someone himself, if he were more petty and more confident, sexually. The idea was chilling. He felt somehow even more naked than he had minutes ago, so he quickly dressed in fresh clothes, and then hung his towel up on the bathroom door. He tried to sort out his hair in the mirror, even though lounging around in bed while it was wet had messed it up in an unfixable way, but after five minutes the room was feeling unbearably claustrophobic so he decided, whatever, it was a look, and slipped his room key and his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, and left.

   For a lack of other options, he went down to the bar and ordered a Dr Pepper. While he waited, he rested one forearm on the counter and looked around. Several important looking people sat on the low couches, chatting in groups or tapping at laptops. Self-consciously, Craig touched his hair. What did he look like to these people? He felt like every particle in his body was sending some screaming message into the restaurant, that everyone would soon notice him and the fact that he didn't really belong here.

   The Dr Pepper was served to him in a tall cylindrical glass. Craig stared at it for several long seconds, but decided not to make some kind of spectacle of himself and accepted it the way it was.

   Then he scanned the room for a place to sit down. It was early evening, past lunch but before dinner, and consequently the place was sparsely populated, and almost nobody was eating. Still, it reminded him of trying to find a place to sit in the cafeteria at school, on those days when Clyde and Token were exempted for football reasons. He spotted a free table by the far window, in a little alcove, with two sizeable chairs and a low table. The ice in the glass made the tips of his fingers numb as he walked there, realising halfway that crossing the entire room was a mistake, because his heart was beginning to pound, and he hesitated. Then he realised hesitating was the most conspicuous thing he could have done, and regretted it.

   "Craig?" someone said, to his left. He froze momentarily, and then half-turned.

   It was Wendy. She was sitting stiffly on a plush green couch, all three cushions to herself. On the coffee table she had an oblong dish of macaroni and cheese, and her fork was still partially submerged in it, held slackly in her hand. She looked uncertain, like she now couldn't decide if she should've called attention to herself or let Craig continue his weird procession to that table in the back. The table which, Craig noticed out of the corner of his eye, an older man and woman were now occupying, sighing with relief as they sat down, as if they'd been walking all day.

   Craig looked down at the sparkly-reflective surface of his Dr Pepper. Then he looked back at Wendy. She continued to look at him also. Then she averted her eyes to her food. Craig, in turn, allowed himself one more wistful glance back at that table. The couple were perusing menus, getting ready to order drinks. Then he looked at Wendy again and said, "Hi."

   "Hi," Wendy said. She relaxed a tiny fraction, but did not smile. She looked as awkward as Craig felt, and he did not find this comforting.

   "Can I sit here?" he asked, gesturing with his drink to the identical couch on the other side of the coffee table.

   Tersely, she nodded. "Just don't think I'm an idiot for sitting here by myself, okay. I came down at lunchtime, and all the other tables were taken."

   "I really didn't notice," Craig said, and took a seat.

   Wendy raised an eyebrow. "You didn't?"

   "Nope." Craig drank from his glass and swore he could feel the liquid hitting the very bottom of his empty stomach. He'd slept in late, and missed breakfast. Earlier, in the bath, he assumed it was the steam that was making him feel light-headed, but now he understood. "Are you eating that?" he asked, gesturing to the mac and cheese.

   "Yes, I am," Wendy said, but let go of her fork and shifted to sit back against the couch cushions. "This is my second plate."

   "Nice," Craig said.

   "Do you want some?" she asked. At Craig's questioning look, she sighed and continued, "It's okay, but it's kind of making me homesick, you know? Only my mom makes it with this low-fat cheese that's basically yogurt, so this isn't really the same. And I'm also just really sick of eating vegan sandwiches." She saw that he was hesitating, and paused. "What? I don't have cooties, Craig."

   "It has some lipstick on it," Craig explained. He had picked up the fork, and turned it so she could see the pink crescent shape. The colour looked much brighter on the metal than it did on her mouth.

   Wendy all but scoffed at him. "I think you'll live."

   Craig gave her a look, and then ate a forkful of the mac and cheese. It was indeed okay, if not a little cold. Eating only made him hungrier, so he had another forkful. Then he wiped his mouth with a napkin, which made Wendy smirk.

   "Why've you been eating vegan sandwiches?" asked Craig, for a lack of anything better to say.

   "Ugh. Stan makes them for me, because everyone else on this tour eats exclusively burgers and fried chicken, and I can't support those establishments because the fast food industry is a product of a culture of overworked employees and a cesspool of animal abuse and questionable hygiene standards." Wendy said, shrugging. Then she paused, and then looked up at him, frowning. "Plus, they keep stopping at Wendy's, and I just don't think it's as funny as they do."

   "Oh." Craig offered Wendy the fork back. She accepted it, and ate a little. "What's in the sandwiches?"

   "Hummus, usually. Sometimes avocado." Wendy shrugged again. "Nothing good."

   "That's sad," Craig said.

   "It is sad," Wendy agreed. "I haven't broken it to Stan yet that avocado farming isn't sustainable. He doesn't even know."

   "That's really awful."

   "I know," Wendy said, gravely. Then she looked Craig over, and he was disturbed that she spent an extra fraction of a second longer on his hair than the rest of him. Impulsively, he reached up and tried again to flatten it. Wendy clasped her hands in her lap and met his eyes. "How have you been?"

   "Fine," Craig said. Wendy waited, clearly expecting him to elaborate, but that was all he really wanted to share about his life since he'd seen her last. Especially because of the way she said _how have you been_ , sensitively, like she was well aware of the general history of how he'd been and already assumed the worst. "What about you?"

   "Oh, I'm fine. Better," she said, with weight. "I think I needed that week in South Park. I graduated a semester early," she said, and Craig nodded along, not really surprised, "so I've been on the road for a while, and, yeah. It has this effect on you, where nothing exactly feels like real life, and it can be disorienting. It's like going to Vegas."

   "In what way?"

   "As in, 'what happens on the tour, stays on the tour'," Wendy said.

   "You think so?" Craig shifted in his seat. The couch cushions were stiff, and his phone was heavy in his pocket. "I'm making a tour diary, so, actually, what happens on the tour will be forever immemorialized in video form."

   "Oh," Wendy said.

   "That was a joke," Craig said, though it kind of wasn't.

   "I got that," Wendy said, and sipped at her drink. It was still water in a half empty glass, lipstick-stained. Craig took a drink as well and felt inadequate, regretting his choice of not just soda but one that tasted so syrupy and thick, and had an artificially fruity flavour that stuck in the back of his throat, so that even after he had replaced his drink on its coaster, he was still thinking about it, and the fact that he probably shouldn't drink it -- but also that he probably wouldn't stop any time soon.

   Wendy's teeth were so white, and her skin was so clear. Craig had a skincare routine that rivalled his sister's just to _attempt_  to keep the oiliness at bay, and his teeth straddled a fine line of white-ish but not pearly, which made him think about buying Crest strips every time he passed the hygiene aisle at Sooper Foods, though he hadn't, yet. The whole thing reminded him of Kenny, with his artificially whitened teeth, which was exactly what he didn't want, and as he snapped out of it he realised he'd been kind of staring at Wendy's mouth while she ate, probably looking troubled and distracted, because when she glanced his way and noticed his expression she stopped with a speared piece of dripping pasta half-way to her mouth and asked, "Are you alright?"

   "Yes," Craig said. He grasped around for something to say, and came up with, "I saw Tweek just now. You sent him to my room." The moment the words were out, he was ready to continue, to really rip into Tweek for how he'd behaved, and also just for being an intrusive vomiting wreck of a human being, but at the last second he thought better of it, and decided he'd rather hear what Wendy had to say for herself instead. He gave her an expectant look that he hoped indicated this.

   Wendy chewed her pasta slowly. Hesitantly. "He volunteered."

   "That's not what he said."

   "Well, I asked and he said yes, so that's-- I'd call that volunteering," Wendy said. "Haven't you noticed he's lonely?"

   Craig rolled his eyes. "No, I haven't noticed that."

   "It's hard to miss. Especially on the crew bus -- there is _no_ privacy, at all." Wendy shook her head, as if this was a tragic thing. "He's just been moping around all the time. Lately he hasn't even been getting out of bed unless he has to." She paused, waiting for Craig to speak. When he was silent, incredulous, she curled her hands into fists in her lap and added, "It's sad, Craig!"

   "And that's my fault?"

   "I'm not saying it's your fault, you just aren't..." she stopped to suck in a breath, and then let it out again, looking him over. "Helping."

   "I'm helping my _self_ ," Craig said, and then a beat later realised he had no idea what he meant by this, and clearly, neither did Wendy. Craig figured there was nothing to do but stick with it. He sat up straighter, not hiding his annoyance.

   "You could be nicer," Wendy replied, simply.

   "I wont," said Craig.

   "Of course you wont." Wendy shot him a look as if he was a misbehaving child. In her mind, Craig thought as his pulse began to race, maybe he was. "I can't believe I shared my mac and cheese with you."

   "Yeah, well. I'm going to go," Craig said. He got to his feet and eyed what was left of his drink, but decided he didn't even want it anymore.

  
-v-

  
   The show at the end of the week was explosive. Riotous. Moop's set had ended in an emotional rendition of _Paparazzi,_  and Kenny left the stage giggling conspicuously, possibly high. Presumably against Cartman's wishes, _Craig and Those Guys_ ' dressing room was situated right beside _Moop_ 's, and Craig and his band quickly discovered that someone had invited too many girls backstage. They crowded the hallway, swarming like wasps at the narrow entrance to a hive. Craig found himself watching with mild amusement as they overflowed from Moop's dressing room, a literal line out the door.

   They gave up on getting through when a girl shoved Bebe back and said, "Hey, fuck off, get in line!" and Bebe snapped back, "Why don't _you_ fuck off?" and the entire crowd jostled, threatening to crush someone against the wall with the sheer number of girls, packed like sardines. Over the tops of their heads Craig could see Butters at the dressing room door, attempting to block the way, looking like he was fearing for his life.

   "Let's go get drinks?" Clyde suggested. Craig hummed his agreement, because he was feeling good from the show and still had most of that fifty dollars Tweek had given him. They hung back from the crowd while they consulted Google Maps about where to go and how to get there. Craig's phone buzzed, and he checked it, expecting it to be a text from his sister. Instead, it was from Kenny:

_finally got the bus 2 myself. surprise for u :)_

   Craig looked at the text for a long while, and then swallowed his doubts and made a decision. Perhaps it was a decision fuelled by post-show insanity combined with recent heartbreak combined with long-term sexual frustration, but, he told himself, it was a decision nonetheless.

   "I'll catch up with you guys later," he said, purposefully not looking at Clyde as he did so.

   "Oh, okay," Bebe said, looking up from her phone. "I'll text you where we're going?"

   Craig nodded, and turned to leave, the back of his neck prickling like he was being watched.

   He was outside and walking in the direction of the parking lot before he could give the whole thing too much thought. The fear was still there, but in a muted way, almost detached from the rest of him. He blamed it on the adrenaline, the rush from the performance that was still lingering.

   Inside, with the stagnant air, he had been less aware that he was absolutely caked in sweat. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. It wasn't raining, but the asphalt was damp and it was dark, eerily pitch black but for the tall, two-headed streetlights. He wanted to take his shirt off, too, just to let his skin breathe for a second, but in the end he just put his hat back on and kept walking, eager to be out of the parking lot.

   He found Moop's bus easily and knocked on the door -- and then instantly wondered if that had been a mistake. Maybe Kenny was already naked, waiting for him. Perhaps sprawled on his bunk, or maybe their dinky little dining table. Craig was feeling the urge to leave, to just go back to the venue and pretend none of this had ever happened, but a moment later Kenny answered the door, fully clothed but with damp hair. Craig's anxiety skyrocketed. He hoped it didn't show.

   "Hey," Kenny said, grinning at him. He moved aside to let Craig in, and Craig's legs felt like solid lead as he took the little stairs one at a time. "You showed."

   "I got your text," Craig said. The inside of the tour bus smelled like hairspray and microwave popcorn, and there were crumbs on the black carpet.

   "Yeah?" Kenny said over his shoulder as he led Craig further into the bus, towards the sleeping area. He really had no ass to speak of, Craig noticed as he followed along behind. He touched the top of the dining table faintly as they passed it, trying to ground himself. He wouldn't do anything crazy tonight. Not really. Mostly he just wanted to see where this was going -- if Kenny was going to yell "gotcha!" or whip out his dick, or some kind of in-between scenario that Craig could not yet imagine.

   "'kay," Kenny said, stopping beside his bunk and turning around, his blue eyes glinting. "Are you ready?"

   "For what?" Craig asked.

   "You'll see." Kenny smirked at him. "Sit down on the floor and close your eyes."

   Craig hesitated. This crossed the threshold of 'doing anything crazy' by a mile, especially with so little preamble. Shouldn't they have discussed it beforehand? Maybe they would have, if Craig had texted back at any point. He hated his past self. His opinion of his present self was rapidly dropping as well, the longer he stayed here.

   "Something wrong?" Kenny asked, raising an eyebrow.

   "No," said Craig. Numbly, he got down on his knees. Kenny watched him do so. Craig closed his eyes. Then he cracked one open again and said, "Do you think I could shower first?"

   "Uh, no, dude, you don't need to shower," Kenny said, kneeling down as well. Craig preferred that to having Kenny towering over him, and he closed his eyes again. "Just cross your legs," Kenny told him a moment later, sounding closer.

   Craig struggled to do so; his jeans were tight, his limbs were awkward and there wasn't much space between the bunks. He put his hands behind him to steady himself and felt the sharp, stubborn edge of a what felt like piece of a potato chip under his palm. He heard a metallic creak and the distant sound of people laughing, passing by the bus on their way through the parking lot, headed to the after-party or maybe just to have a cigarette. How stupid did he look right now, he wondered as his ass hit the carpet and he forced his uncooperative grasshopper legs to fold. How many potato chips must he be sitting on?

   "Okay," Kenny said. "Open 'em."

   Craig opened his eyes to see Kenny sitting on the carpet in front of him and holding some kind of animal that he had never seen before. The duvet on Kenny's bed had been piled on the mattress, and underneath his bunk there was a long but low cage. Craig could make out a hammock and an exercise wheel inside. The shock rendered him momentarily silent.

   "This is Princess," Kenny announced.

   "Oh my god," Craig said, as the squirming, fleshy mass was plopped between his crossed legs. "What is she?" he asked, hoping the question didn't sound unkind.

   "She's a hairless rat," Kenny said, proudly.

   "She's huge," Craig said. She was also the exact colour of questionable ham; a light grey-ish pink. She looked up at him and her little nose twitched. She had no whiskers, and looked chubby, for a rat, though the lack of hair made it so that Craig could see every one of her rolls, so maybe that was why.

   "Yeah, she's spoiled." Kenny smiled his approval when Craig gently rubbed the top of her head with the pad of his finger. "I thought maybe you'd be missing your guinea pig, so."

   "How did you know I had a guinea pig?" Craig asked.

   "When did you ever not have one?" Kenny replied.

   Craig relaxed some, shifting to rest his back against the side of the mattress. "Never," he said, though Kenny had clearly inferred that. Craig took out his phone and clicked it on, flashing Kenny his lock screen, a photograph of Spot that he'd taken on his very best camera. She was sitting on Craig's bedroom floor, as fluffy and cute as ever, looking at the camera with her black, beady little eyes. Kenny made an appreciative 'awww' sound, but Craig kept looking at the picture, struck by a thought. He was imagining what Spot might look like without her fur, how wrinkled and pink she'd be. She'd have rolls, too. Craig recalled, again, of the picture Kenny had sent him. A picture that Craig now realised was a close-up of the abdomen of his adorable, scrotum-looking pet. What a gesture.

   "God," Craig said, feeling extremely stupid. "I thought you sent me a picture of your balls."

   "Seriously?" Kenny laughed, and abruptly Craig realised why his teeth looked different. Some manner of realignment had closed the gap between his two front incisors that had been there while they were growing up. Now his smile looked like anyone's, and Craig found himself unnerved by it. "If I was going to send you a dick pic you'd get the full glory of the shaft, like everyone else. What do you even take me for?"

   "Yeah." Craig stared down at his lap, where Princess was sniffing his hand. "I get that now."

   "So, wait," Kenny said, sitting up straighter. "You thought that was a come-on and you still showed up?" Craig nodded, and Kenny deflated some. "Oh. Well now I feel like an asshole."

   "Ugh, no. Don't." Craig shook his head. "I was morbidly curious."

   "About my balls, though?"

   "Well, Kenny, I'm having a rough week. I don't know what you want me to tell you. Maybe lately I've been feeling so messed up that I would've gone through for whatever ball-related encounter you had planned for me. Maybe those are my standards now. Okay?"

   "Okay." Kenny nodded, clearly startled. "Yeah, it happens."

   "Yeah," Craig said. "Let's not dwell on it."

   "For the record, though, you're not my type," Kenny said after a moment. "I kind of have a thing for blondes."

   Kenny was smiling at him ruefully, like they were sharing some kind of inside joke. Craig was unnerved by it, but he was more unnerved by the comment, because it reminded him of Clyde, and his shallow dating habits.

   "Doesn't everyone?" Craig said, unable to hide the edge of bitterness in his tone.

   A silence fell; it was only slightly uncomfortable. Kenny got up and pottered around in the kitchenette, and Craig did his best to keep Princess entertained, quite enjoying the familiar challenge of keeping a small animal in his lap. With Spot, it was usually because he was talking to her. She was like his little furry therapist, patiently listening while he detailed his problems, his feelings for Clyde and his occasional gripes with customers at work, and his lingering concern that he'd hit a brick wall in life and would never amount to anything, doomed to live forever in the town in which he was born, eventually inheriting his parents' house and wandering it for his remaining years, like a ghost. He held Princess up to eye-level and examined her, wondering if she played the same role for Kenny. Probably not, Craig thought. Kenny probably had a real therapist, alongside his orthodontist and, he imagined, a nutritionist, and maybe even some kind of life coach. Or a yoga instructor. Craig eyed Kenny where he was standing a few feet away, making two sandwiches. In Florida, it was probably a kayaking instructor.

   He averted his gaze when Kenny started putting things away, opening and closing the cupboards. Craig was starving, fuelled only by a disappointing barbecue chicken wrap from KFC that he ate before the show and had long since burned off the calories from, and he hoped Kenny had something for him other than a live animal.

   "It's vegan," Kenny said as he handed Craig a white paper plate with two sandwiches on it, cut diagonally. "Except the butter."

   "I'm not a vegan," Craig said, taking the plate. He set it down on the floor to avoid disturbing Princess, who'd taken an interest in one of his belt loops.

   "Everyone's a vegan these days," Kenny said, sitting back down.

   "Well, not only am I not a vegan, but I eat meat, actually," Craig said, mildly, and surprised to be passing this off as an interesting fact about himself.

   "I bet," Kenny said. At Craig's unimpressed look, he started to eat his sandwich, still smiling to himself.

   Craig always gotten along with Kenny because the fact that he barely spoke made him easy to like. Then sometimes he opened his mouth, and Craig remembered why he hadn't felt compelled to keep in touch with him after high school. That and his unwavering loyalty to Stan and Kyle, and his willingness to join them in screwing people over, indiscriminately.

   Craig's stomach was growling, so he took a bite of his sandwich as well. The filling crunched, and tasted salty. Tortilla chips. Craig chewed and swallowed, and then took another bite, deciding he liked it. He made a mental note to buy some chips and bread next time they stopped at a 7-Eleven. It would be tomorrow, in Michigan, he supposed. Bebe had insisted on cleaning out the mini-bar in the hotel room, but it had only contained bottled water, granola, mini pretzels and chocolate bars. In Chicago they'd done nothing but eat; eat room service for breakfast, lunches at the hotel, hotdogs from stands, _several_  pizzas, and whenever their cash injections started to run low they'd just borrow Moop's credit card from Butters and eat again. Considering that, Craig felt he should feel more affronted at eating a tortilla chip sandwich while sitting on the un-vacuumed floor of a tour bus, but he didn't. He'd always had simple tastes.

   Craig felt like he was being stared at, and when he glanced to Kenny he found that he was.

   "Why do you always look at me like that?" he asked, returning the half-eaten part of his sandwich to the plate, feeling put off by the attention.

   "Like what?" Kenny asked. He'd already eaten both of his sandwiches somehow, Craig noticed, and he was sitting with his legs crossed, leaning back on his hands.

   "Like you know something," Craig said. "Like you're in on some kind of secret."

   "Maybe I am," Kenny said, nonchalantly. "Or maybe you're just projecting because you're hiding something."

   "I'm not hiding anything," Craig said. He picked up his sandwich, and began to eat again. Between bites, he said, "I'm not interesting enough to hide things." 

   "If you say so," Kenny said.

   Craig couldn't think of a response, so instead he spoke to Princess. He was fascinated with her sinewy little paws, her dumbo ears; the way she was somehow plump and fragile at the same time.

   "You're just like the opposite of a guinea pig, aren't you?" Craig told her, as she sniffed again at the palm of his hand, which probably smelled of tortilla chips now. He looked to Kenny again, and found him unfazed, still watching. "When did you start keeping rats?" Craig asked, curiously stroking his fingers down Princess' sides.

   Kenny paused for a moment, as if this was not a straightforward question. "When I moved to Florida," he eventually said, stretching his legs out in front of him and setting his empty plate aside. "I have ten of them now. All girls. I converted a room in my house into this huge run for them, it's pretty cool."

   "You'd need a whole room for ten rats, I guess," Craig said, with his mouth full.

   "Yeah. They're not all hairless, though," Kenny said. "Just Princess and her two sisters. Karen calls them her ugly stepsisters."

   "You aren't ugly at all," Craig said, to Princess. To Kenny, he lowered his voice and said, "This was nice of you."

   "It's nothing." Kenny shrugged, though he was smiling. "She likes company."

   Princess was now making a concentrated effort to climb into Craig's shirt sleeve. Craig was fighting the urge to pick her up and kiss her little head. "I can't believe you keep her in your van," he said.

   "I take her out when we're actually driving," Kenny said. "And we have to be careful about the heat and everything. But she's never alone for long. You can let me know if you ever want to hang out with her," he added. "I know it can get lonely out here."

   "Yeah." Craig blinked, surprised by the profundity of that statement. "It can."

   Craig finished eating his sandwich, then volunteered to throw out the plates. He was half-tempted to take a look through the trash can, for a glimpse of how Moop lived on the road and in the hopes of finding something weird to mock them about at a later date, but he resisted. Instead, he stopped in front of the fridge on his way back.

   "Can I get a drink?" he asked Kenny, who had shifted to lie flat on his back and had his legs splayed open. There was a lump under his t-shirt, which moved occasionally. Craig looked away, amused.

   "Yeah," Kenny said, without moving.

   Craig opened the mini fridge and bent to look inside. He scanned the contents. "All you have to drink is bottled water," he said.

   "Mmhm," Kenny said.

   Craig waited for some kind of apology, but Kenny didn't say anything, as if this was normal. Craig took two bottles and put them on the counter, then leaned down again to see what else they had. A solid seventy-five percent of the space was taken up with the fat Fiji water bottles, but there was also a decent sized stash of chocolate bars, some assorted condiments, and four ripe avocados. Craig took the smallest of the chocolate bars and put it in his back pocket. As he was closing the fridge, a small, rectangular paper box caught his eye, nestled in behind the butter. Craig took it out and read the packaging. It was insulin. He put it back carefully, disappointed.

   "What are you doing the rest of the night?" Craig asked as he walked back towards the sleeping area. He sat down again, then realised that the chocolate bar in his pocket wasn't going to survive there for long. He removed it and pushed it under Kyle's bunk, just as Kenny sat up, with Princess' little face poking out of the collar of his shirt as he held her in place with the palm of one hand.

   "Driving to Detroit, I think," Kenny said, taking the water bottle Craig handed him and setting it down on the carpet.

   "Until then?"

   "Hanging out," Kenny said. "We could watch a movie. Or listen to your demo tape," he added, which made Craig choke on his water. 

   "Let's literally never do that," Craig replied, coughing. "Uh, I listened to your albums, though," he said once his throat was clear, hoping to change the subject. "I thought your drumming was very--" he began, and then realised Kenny had contributed to two smash-hit rock albums that had taken the world by storm and he, himself, had never done anything of note in his entire life, so it really didn't matter what he thought, about anything. His words died on his tongue, but Kenny was still watching him, waiting for him to continue. Craig looked down at the carpet, and said, "...evocative."

   "Evocative? Cool." Kenny handed Princess to Craig again. This time she scampered right up his arm and settled on his shoulder, her little nose twitching every other second. "I just love it, you know? The music. Being a part of it." He lay back and splayed his legs again, not seeming to care that he was essentially presenting his crotch to Craig. He clasped his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. "The touring. The girls. It's the fucking life."

   "Ha. Yeah." Craig stoked Princess with his thumb and thought, again, of Denver, and how suffocated he'd felt at that party, how he'd ended up sitting with Stan and Kyle of all people while Clyde had the time of his life ten feet away, drunk and taken in by someone else. Clyde had been doing everything right -- everything he'd be expected to do. Craig could fault him for none of it. He sighed, and on a whim, he said, "Can I ask you something?"

   "Sure," Kenny said, cracking one eye open a little.

   "Have you ever wanted someone you couldn't have?" asked Craig.

   Kenny thought about it for a few seconds. "Not really, no," he said, sounding sorry about it. "I think I've had just about everyone I wanted."

   "Yeah." Craig nodded and looked away, unsure what exactly he'd expected. "Of course you have."

   Kenny had both of his eyes open now, watching him. "That wasn't what you wanted to hear."

   "Eh," Craig said. "Forget it."

   The door of the bus clattered open. Princess startled on Craig's shoulder, and Kenny quickly picked her up and placed her back in the cage, bolting the door firmly behind her. Craig strained to turn around, and when he did he found Stan and Kyle coming in, laughing about something, looking happy for once. Stan had an arm around Kyle's shoulders, Craig noticed. They looked less happy when they saw him sitting there, on the floor, with his legs crossed, like he owned the place.

   "Oh," Kyle said. He shrugged Stan's arm off of him. "Craig."

   "Dude! There you are," Stan said, wide-eyed.

   "Here I am," said Craig. In his peripheral vision he could see Kenny busy straightening out the sheet that covered Princess's cage, paying no attention.

   "Bebe's out there looking for you," said Stan. "She was interrogating us about whether you were in our bus. And I was like, 'why the hell would he be in our bus?'" He glanced at Kyle as if expecting him to find it funny, but Kyle only nodded along, tightly.

   "Why was she looking for me?" Craig asked, still turned half way around, craning his neck like an idiot.

   "Because they're about to leave, I guess," Stan said. "I dunno."

   "We're hitting the road as soon as Cartman turns up," Kyle said. It sounded to Craig like he was bragging about this, somehow.

   "Already?" Kenny said, pulling out his phone to check the time.

   "She was kind of freaking out," Stan told Craig.

   "Okay," Craig said, and got up. "Well." He stood for a moment with his hands at his sides, feeling conspicuous. "Thanks for the sandwich, and everything," he said to Kenny.

   "Any time," Kenny said.

   Craig left, annoyed that he had to squeeze past Stan and Kyle to access the door. He closed it behind him, and when he turned around to step back onto the asphalt, he almost bumped right into Bebe, who had been waiting, looking frazzled and pink in the face.

   "Craig!" she said, as if scolding him.

   "What?" Craig said, perturbed. He resisted the urge to step away from her, sensing that she had come to pick a fight.

   "I _knew_  you'd be in there checking out Kenny's balls! God!" she said, not bothering to be quiet. Craig looked around, concerned by the idea of an audience. No one was visible in immediate range, but through the gloom he could see a group of roadies gathered maybe twenty feet away, still too close for comfort.

   "I wasn't--" Craig attempted to protest while Bebe grabbed his hand and led him towards their own bus, parked across the lot. She was tiny compared to him, but far stronger; at times like these, he remembered that. "That's why you were looking for me? I wasn't hooking up with him. He said he only likes blondes." At the door of their own van, he hesitated while he watched Bebe unlock the door, fumbling in her hurry. "And also, like, women, presumably. Do you have some kind of a thing for him?"

   "You're asking me this _now_?" Bebe asked, wrenching the door open. "We have a problem! Something is seriously -- and I mean  _seriously_  -- wrong with Tweek," she explained, lowering her voice with every word as they went up the steps.

   "Story of his life," Craig said.

   Bebe glanced over her shoulder at him, exasperated and speechless. She took his hand again, as though she expected him to make a break for it at any moment, holding him there as she closed the door behind him.

   Obediently, Craig followed her as she went further into the buss. His mouth felt dry. He'd forgotten the chocolate bar in his hurry to leave, he realised; for some reason he found himself mentally fixated on this. Stan and Kyle always found a way to ruin his day, no matter where they were, or how old, he thought -- they were always showing up when he least wanted them to. Usually with some kind of trouble in tow; some kind of absurd plan, or some bad news, or just some annoying behaviour that Craig had to put up with because he was _still_ , after all these years, just a little too nice to tell them to fuck off once and for all.

   Bebe's palm was a little damp, her fingernails digging into the side of his hand. She let go abruptly when they reached the sleeping area.

   "Why is he in my bed?" Craig asked, keeping his distance while he took in the situation. 

   Tweek was curled up under the duvet. Half of his hair had fallen out of his ponytail, and his face was entirely buried in the pillow. He was shaking more than usual, and ignoring Token, who was sitting on Bebe's bunk and looking uncomfortable, and Clyde, who had situated himself on the floor, holding a plastic bag open, patiently waiting for Tweek to throw up in it.

   "Where else was he supposed to go?" Clyde said, in a matter-of-fact way. He seemed incredibly calm, Craig thought, considering the circumstances.

   Craig did not feel quite so calm. He crossed his arms, and didn't reply. He was feeling a little sick himself, and contemplated leaving, but he also wanted Tweek to not expire in his bunk and put even more of a damper on the tour than there already was, so he stayed put. There was nowhere to escape to, regardless. The bus was already moving, the floor vibrating underfoot. Butters had wasted no time. Craig imagined Moop's bus would be pulling out soon, too, followed by the other sleeper housed their extra gear and crew. Separating on the interstate, then merging into one cohesive fleet again in some Detroit parking lot. Tweek was supposed to be with them. Now he was here.

   "...Maybe we should give them some space," Token suggested, getting to his feet.

   " _Them_?" Craig said, sharply. Token held up his hands in surrender, and sat down again.

   Tweek groaned, and then bent his head and threw up into the plastic bag. His skin was ashen and a little green, and Craig got the impression this was not the first time this had happened today.

   "I think I'll stay," Clyde said over the sound of Tweek's retching.

   "I think you should all stay," Craig said. He was prepared to physically block their exit if he needed to. He watched as Tweek wiped his mouth on his forearm, and then slumped down again, looking exhausted, and shiny with sweat.

   "He doesn't want to talk to us," Bebe said. She sat down next to Token and put her elbows on her knees, hunched over a little, eyeing Tweek in a suspicious sort of way, as if waiting to see what he might do next.

   "Why?" asked Craig. 

   Bebe shrugged, and made a vague hand gesture signifying that either she did not know, or couldn't explain. Craig took a moment to collect himself, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. This was so incredibly typical, and yet some part of him had actually thought that bringing Tweek along for the tour would be uneventful. A grand total of eight days after leaving home, he had been proven wrong.

   And to think, he had almost been in a good mood.

   "Well, Tweek, I hate to say 'I told you so'," Craig informed him, opting to stay standing, looming over Tweek in his sickbed. Tweek only fixed him with a watery-eyed stare, trembling. "What do you think we should do now?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically. He doubted that Tweek would have any great ideas. The last great idea Tweek had had, Craig recalled, was to relieve himself of the burden of prescription medication.

   "What do you mean?" asked Tweek. His eyes darted from Craig, to Token, to the corner of Bebe's bunk, where there was nothing but a pillow propped up against the wall.

   "Is this serious? Should we go to a hospital?" Craig prompted. "Can any of them, like, kill you?"

   Tweek bristled at this, and inched away, wide-eyed. "Why do you want to kill me?"

   This was familiar. Craig softened his tone just a little, feeling self-conscious; his friends were all staring at him like they expected him to know what to say, magically. "I'm talking about the withdrawal symptoms."

   "What? Why are you staring at me?!" Tweek demanded, his voice cracking. He edged away and pulled the duvet up over his head. He buried himself under the blankets -- Craig's blankets. "Just leave me alone!"

   Craig gave up and sat down beside Clyde on the floor. The plastic bag had been tied and set aside, rather than disposed of exactly, but Craig felt too worn out to be grossed out by it. What did it matter? He'd seen more puke in the last few weeks than the entire rest of his life. Apparently, this was touring.

   He thought of Kenny, and wondered if Tweek's usual medications could be used recreationally and, if so, whether Kenny might be holding any or know someone who was. Not that Craig could remember the names, now that he thought about it. When they were kids, Tweek never seemed to have the same family doctor for more than a month, which meant his prescriptions were always changing, creating a constant issue with side effects. Insomnia, drowsiness, vomiting, weight gain, loss of appetite. Impotence, even. Craig looked down at the floor. He didn't know why he kept thinking about that. Mostly he kept willing himself to find it funny.

   Bebe tapped Craig on the shoulder. "This is how he used to get, right?" she asked, quietly. "Paranoid like this?"

   "He didn't usually throw up," Craig said. He glanced at Tweek again; he was just a shivering, twitching lump under the blanket now. "But, yes. And I knew this would happen," he added, just in case anyone doubted this.

   "Don't talk about me like I can't hear you, Craig!" said Tweek, his voice muffled.

   "I actually really don't want to deal with this," Craig said, to nobody in particular. He swore he could feel the sandwich he'd eaten congealing in his stomach. "Just because Tweek decided to be a total cliche and go off his medication. For the sake of his dick, of all things," he said, in such a mood now that he didn't give a shit that Tweek could hear him and that Clyde was giving him a wide-eyed,almost _fearful_ look that usually signalled that he was taking it too far. "And doesn't even have a prescription with him, presumably."

   "Do you?" Clyde asked Tweek. "Because that would really help us out."

   "Why are you asking me so many questions!" Tweek twitched a few times under the blankets; he was yelling now. "What do you want?!"

   "I think we should turn back," Token said. Craig turned around to look at him; his fingers were steepled and his posture was tense, and Craig could tell he'd made up his mind. "Clearly he needs to see a doctor."

   "We have to be in Detroit by noon tomorrow," Bebe pointed out. "We don't have time to turn back."

   "We could stop at a hospital on the way there," Clyde said.

   "And just leave him in the ER?" Craig asked, smirking, because after all the years he'd spent running around after Tweek and attending to his every need, the idea seemed vaguely hilarious to him. Then Tweek screamed into his pillow, and Craig stopped smirking.

   " _Stop_ at a hospital," said Clyde. "Stop as in _stop_ , and _go there_ , as a group, and then _leave,_ as a group." He was looking at Craig like he might turn on him next, and strike at any moment. As if Clyde should care if they abandoned Tweek in the middle of nowhere, Craig thought. They weren't friends. Tweek had been given a place at their lunch table throughout middle school, more of an extension of Craig than an actual member of the group. Then they'd broken up, and Craig had assumed that his friends had no reason to acknowledge Tweek at all, until Craig had gone and let him tag along on their big cross-country adventure, for some god damn reason. "You wouldn't really do that, right?" Clyde asked.

   "No." Craig put his head in his hands. "But I'm staying in the van."

   "You are _not_  staying in the van," said Bebe.

   "Don't stay in the van," Clyde said mildly.

   "This is ridiculous," Craig said without lifting his head. "Make Butters go. I'm really tired."

   "I'll tell him what's going on," said Token, getting to his feet for a second time.

   This time, Craig allowed it, but when Token reached the door at the far end of the bus, he leaned around Bebe's legs and said, "You can't get out of this that easy, you know."

   Token responded to this with only a tired look. Then he turned and left without another word.

   "Fuck," Bebe remarked. She collapsed back onto her bed, starfishing across the mattress.

   "Yeah. Fuck," Craig agreed. He got up and turned his back on everyone. Then he went to the kitchenette. He opened the mini-fridge and knelt to peer into it, though he wasn't exactly hungry at this particular moment. He was mostly just irritated. And exhausted. And anxious. And he needed to change his clothes.

   Without taking anything from the fridge, he slammed it shut and walked back to his bunk again, retrieving his backpack from underneath it and changing into a clean shirt while facing in the most modest direction. He zipped up the bag with more force than was really necessary. It wasn't that he was angry _at Tweek_ \-- though he was, in fact, perpetually a little bit angry at Tweek, for many reasons -- but really the crux of the issue was that he wanted to go to _bed_ , and he knew that even if he did, he wouldn't be able to sleep knowing Tweek was at the mercy of total strangers. Tweek wasn't afraid of hospitals, but Craig sort of was, and he carried a general anxiety for anyone who happened to be inside of one. Even if that person was his ex-boyfriend.

   The bus trundled on. Tweek did not emerge from underneath the blankets, and Token did not come back. Craig imagined him sitting up front with Butters, screwing around with the GPS to find the nearest hospital, and he wished he was doing that instead of sitting on the carpet with his legs crossed, propped up by the bunk behind him, head lolling a little as he stared blankly at the t-shirt Clyde was wearing, which said "COLORADICAL" across the chest, accompanied by a picture of some mountains. He closed his eyes for just a second. It felt good to do so. They were aching; it was the time of night when everything seemed to be aching.

   "Should we have done something differently?" Clyde asked. Craig opened his eyes. Clyde was sitting across from him, diagonally, with his back to Tweek, and his legs pulled up to his chest. He was watching Craig in a desperate, beseeching sort of way, like what he said next would be vitally important. As if his moral compass hinged on it.

   "What?" was what Craig ended up saying next.

   "I'm starting to feel like letting him throw out his medication was a bad idea," Clyde said, clearly making an effort to keep his voice steady. "I think this could be our fault."

   Craig sighed, and glanced over Clyde's shoulder. Tweek hadn't stirred in a while, but Craig could hear him breathing through his mouth, far too rapidly to be asleep. Occasionally he groaned in a pitiful sort of way, as if just taking in air was too much for him to handle.

   "We're not responsible for him," Craig decided. "He's not, like, our child."

   "He's our employee. That makes us responsible."

   "We don't pay him," Craig said. "He's responsible for himself."

   "We should have stopped him," Clyde said. He was staring, glumly, straight ahead.

   "Clyde," Craig said, carefully, "if you start blaming yourself for things Tweek does then you'll never live a full life, okay? Believe me."

   Clyde nodded, though he didn't really look like he agreed. Then he frowned. "That's harsh," he said.

   "But it's true," said Craig.

  
-v-

  
   Twenty minutes later they trundled into the parking lot of a nice-looking hospital somewhere in the state of Indiana. It was an amalgamation of three great brick buildings, all rectangles yet in ways differently shaped. Craig stood on the asphalt and looked up at the lights in all the windows. Trees lined the ambulance bay; there was a lawn. He found himself amazed, again, by how quickly they seemed to fall in and out of civilization. From the interstate there had been nothing for what looked like miles; now they were in some kind of town, or maybe a city, appearing all at once around them, like it had been hidden behind a hill or a clump of trees all along.

   Behind him, his bandmates and Tweek were still dismounting from the bus. He heard someone skip the last step and then land hard on both feet on the tarmac, and then suck in a deep, deep lungful of air. Craig surmised that it was probably Tweek, and was proven right when Tweek came to stand beside him, hugging himself and shivering. He was wearing a sweater that had gone threadbare, fraying around the ends of the sleeves.

   "What time is it?" Tweek asked, looking up at the sky.

   "About midnight," Craig said.

   "It's freezing," Tweek said, sounding on the verge of tears. "Where are we?"

   With some surprise, Craig looked at him. Even in the dark he could still see Tweek's wide, shiny eyes.

   "We're taking you to this hospital," Craig said, "and we're going to sit in the waiting room and stay until you're done instead of driving off to Detroit where we're supposed to be by tomorrow morning. So you're welcome, Tweek."

    "What do you think is wrong with me?" Tweek asked, clutching at his stomach. "Do you think I'm dying?"

   Craig heard the van's side door slam closed. "No," he said, giving Tweek a side-on look. "You aren't dying. You're just puking. There's a difference."

   "Not always!" Tweek said.

   "Okay, well. Let's just do this," Craig said.

   As a group, they began to cross the parking lot and head towards the glass sliding doors of the emergency room; Craig bowed his head and put his hands in his pockets, hating how far away from the building Butters had decided to drop them off. "I'm so glad he can walk," Bebe was saying, lowly, as she trailed along behind with Clyde and Token. Craig agreed silently with this sentiment, though Tweek looked unsteady on his feet, keeling, and every few steps he looked back over his shoulder. Craig was beginning to worry he wouldn't make it inside. Behind him, he heard the engine rumble, and the van pulled away, out of the bay that had barely contained it to begin with.

   Craig pulled his jacket tighter around himself. Even without Tweek, there was something inherently nerve-wracking about going to a hospital in the middle of the night. In his attempt to force himself to be calm Craig counted five stories on the smallest building, though it could have been six, or even three. It was hard to tell. The trees swayed in the wind, rustling; Craig thought they might be poplars.

   They reached the door. Craig held it open while they all filed inside, where the lights were extremely bright and fluorescent. In his initial scan of the place, Craig counted maybe ten other people waiting on plastic chairs, a few nurses looming by the front desk, and one doctor using a computer with his back to the room.

   Craig let out a breath of relief; they had made it.

   Then Tweek got everyone's attention by doubling over and throwing up all over the floor.

   Craig watched, unmoving, as two nurses in blue scrubs appeared from somewhere to fuss over Tweek, who had collapsed woozily into the nearest chair. He looked both mortified and confused, and Craig looked away, able to focus only on a poster about meningitis in children. "You know what?" he heard himself saying to no-one in particular. "I don't think I can handle this."

   "Dude," Clyde admonished him. Craig was startled; he hadn't realised Clyde was at his shoulder. Now that he looked at him, he seemed weirdly out of place in the clean, clinical waiting room, with his obnoxious t-shirt and hair still messed up from whatever he'd gotten up to after the show. "Of course you can handle it," he said. His face was mostly blank, but his eyes were earnest, and to Craig this felt a little like a punch to the gut. "Tweek needs you."

   Another nurse appeared with a wheelchair. Craig shook his head. He took a step back, towards the front door, bumping clumsily into Clyde as he did.

   "I don't care," he said. He felt as though he was watching the scene unfold from very far away; Token helping the tiny nurse support the weight of Tweek, who had his eyes squeezed shut for some reason, and Bebe at the front desk, explaining something, gesturing rapidly.

   "What?" Clyde said. "Craig."

   Craig looked at him. "What?"

   "I don't know," Clyde said. He was wringing his hands. "Maybe you should sit down or something."

   Craig couldn't bring himself to sit down. It felt like too dramatic of a thing to do, so he stayed standing, feeling his palms go damp. The deja vu was disorienting; like time travel. He felt like he was replaying one of the many dreary scenes from his adolescence, when Tweek would call at one in the morning, upset and making little sense, and Craig would close his eyes and resign himself to another one of these endless nights in Hell's Pass.

   This was not Hell's Pass, of course, but hospitals were basically interchangable to Craig. So were Tweek's numerous breakdowns, which in his memory had turned into a generalized blur, impossible to separate into the singular, arduous events that they were. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe evenly. When he opened them Tweek was situated in the wheelchair and Craig wished more than anything that he had just stayed in the fucking van.

   "He looks fucked up," he said, under his breath. It was the only coherent thought he could string together.

   "Yeah." Clyde nodded. "We did the right thing, bringing him here."

   "We did."

   "You should go," said Clyde, and nudged him, nodding in the direction of Tweek, who was also looking bearily up at him, over his shoulder, like he expected Craig to do or say something meaningful.

   "Uh," Craig said, lamely, and did not move as Tweek was wheeled away. "Good luck, Tweek."

   "What the hell?" said Bebe loudly, from the desk. Then she noticed how many people were staring at her, and gestured with her thumb down the corridor, mouthing, "Go with him!"

   "I don't think he wants company," Craig said, watching as Tweek and the nurse went around a corner and were gone.

   Craig felt like he was being watched by everyone in the room as he took a seat in one of the plastic chairs next to the other visitors, and waited for Bebe and Token to return from the front desk. He kept his head down, spirit lifting just a little when Clyde sat down next to him. He was glad that, if nothing else, he was still a person someone wanted to sit next to. He stared at the ripped-on-purpose knee of Clyde's jeans and felt himself zoning out a little, his periphery growing blurry as he thought about how tired he was, how late it was, how much danger Tweek was potentially in, the fact that Tweek's parents might try to actually murder him if they found out what part Craig had played in Tweek's decision to flee South Park and leave his extremely necessary medication behind. They had always been protective when it came to Tweek's health, Craig remembered. They'd pushed for every diagnosis Tweek received. And when Tweek became so distressed that he wanted nothing more than to be taken to hospital and made blackout unconscious, they obliged him, and usually swung by to pick Craig up from where he always waited after Tweek called in the middle of the night, hastily dressed on his doorstep, half-awake and ready to do whatever it took to make things okay again.

   Craig was snapped out of his thoughts by Bebe sitting down heavily on his other side, and Token sitting down beside her. Bebe had a clipboard and a pen, and Token had a bag of chips from the vending machine. He offered some to Craig; he declined. Clyde took two.

   "She gave me these forms," Bebe told the group. "She said to just fill out as much as we know." She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, and Craig noticed that the rest of it was pulled back in a bun on top of her head; a sign of a long night to come. Craig could deal with long nights, he told himself. He knew how to keep his head down and do what he had to.

   The waiting room was incredibly hot, he was noticing. His forearms were sticking to the faux-wood laminate arms of the chair.

   "Okay, sure." Token leaned over and scanned the first sheet of paper. "Name," he read aloud. Then he looked to Craig, expectant.

   "You're asking me what his name is?" Craig said, far too tired for any of this. "Seriously?"

   "Well, yeah." Token shrugged and rooted around in his chip bag. Craig watched, wishing he would stop. The crinkling of the foil putting him on edge. "'Tweek' isn't his actual first name."

   "What?" Craig said.

   "It's a nickname," said Token. He looked far too comfortable in his hospital chair. Probably glad to be rid of Tweek, Craig thought. Across the room, a night-shift janitor was cleaning up the puddle of vomit, the mop squeaking on the laminate. "Nobody would call their child 'Tweek Tweak' on their birth certificate."

   "Are you kidding me right now?" Craig said, shifting in his seat to give Token the look that statement deserved. "Your name is Token Black."

   "That was a coincidence," Token said.

   "Are you saying his real first name is Tweek?" Clyde asked, looking at Craig. He was struggling not to laugh. Craig could not imagine how anyone could laugh at a time like this.

   "I never questioned it," Craig said. He leaned back in his chair, trying to think, though his brain felt staticky still, like all his neural pathways had degraded. "Why would I? I grew up with friends named Token Black and Butters Stotch."

   "Butters has a real first name," Clyde pointed out.

   "'Token' is a real first name!"

   "Just-- okay," Craig took the clipboard and the pen and wrote _Tweek Tweak_  in his terrible handwriting before anybody could stop him. Then he handed them back to Bebe and said, "What's next?"

   "Date of birth," Bebe said. She tapped the back end of the pen against the paper, paused, then looked to Craig again. So did Token and Clyde.

   "You're all Facebook users," Craig said. "Surely you know this."

   "I don't think his birthday is on Facebook?" Clyde said. "He's a private person."

   "It's November 9th," Craig said, and Bebe wrote it down. "The same birthday as Carl Sagan."

   "Tweek is a Scorpio?" Bebe said. "Wow, I never would've guessed that."

   "Well, now you know," said Craig, and they got through the rest of the questions quickly after that, mostly because they had no answers for them. They had to request two extra pieces of paper to jot down what Craig knew of Tweek's medical history, leaving a conspicious eight-year gap which concluded with recent events, a fact Craig hoped he would not be asked to elaborate on. After the way Tweek had left home, Craig wasn't even sure who his emergency contact should be. In the end he scribbled down his own phone number, pointlessly, and for 'relation' he hesitated and was torn between writing 'employer' or 'friend', but settled instead for 'it's complicated'.

   They handed the clipboard back, and waited. Craig entertained himself playing games on his phone until his thumb began to cramp, and then peered over Bebe's shoulder as she read a _People_  magazine from four years ago. Around the two-hour mark, Craig found himself in a staring contest with a random child across the room, with the dead weight of Bebe asleep against his left arm, and Clyde asleep against the right. Token was reading a newspaper, turning the pages gently so as not to wake them up. Craig focused on this sound like it was a ticking clock, marking intervals in the slow passage of time.

   A nurse approached, looking as tired as Craig felt. She stopped in front of them and hesitated. "You're here with, um, Tweek-- is that right?" she said, as quietly as she could, but Bebe still blinked awake, and made a confused sound.

   "We're his friends," Bebe said, drowsily. One of her stray curls tickled Craig's nose when she moved her head; he narrowed his eyes and gently pushed her off, urging her to sit upright. "Is he okay?"

   "He's just fine," she said, and then turned to Craig, looking him over. "You're Craig Tucker?" she asked, and Craig nodded. "He wants to talk to you."

   "Me?" Craig said, forgetting to be quiet. He heard Clyde wake with a groan, and then lift his weight off Craig's other shoulder, which was now kind of numb, and began to tingle. "Why does he want to talk to me?"

   "You're who he asked for," the nurse said.

   "Uh, okay," Craig said, shrugging when his friends looked at him, curious. 

    He got up, deciding to leave his jacket behind. The nurse led the way down a long beige hallway, and Craig followed along, feeling perturbed. In the distant past, he would've been with Tweek the entire time, holding his hand and wiping his tears and trying to make conversation about Chinpokomon or Minecraft or whatever they had been into at that age. He had expected that Tweek would want to keep his distance -- to divorce himself from these memories as much as Craig did. Now, he wasn't so sure.

   Tweek had been placed in a ward with several beds, though his, at the far end of the room, was the only one occupied. He noticed Craig immediately when he entered, and he sat upright, somehow both more and less alert than Craig had expected. He had taken his hair down, and was not hooked up to anything, though Craig noticed a little plastic valve taped down on the back of his hand.

   Craig approached stiffly, feeling self-conscious. There was another nurse in the room, typing on a computer in one corner.

   "Craig!" Tweek grabbed for Craig's hand as soon as he was in range, gripping it in his frigid and trembling one. "Oh my God. Oh my God!"

   "Tweek." Gently, Craig eased his hand out of Tweek's grip; Tweek didn't seem to notice, but Craig felt a wave of guilt, and so he used it to instead smooth Tweek's hair back from his forehead, which was arguably more intimate, but also utilitarian, because Tweek's hair was everywhere, falling into his eyes. Most of his hairclips had slid back towards the crown of his head; Craig supposed the others had ended up in his bunk somewhere. "What happened? What did the doctor say?"

   "It's crazy, man, you wouldn't believe it." Tweek covered his face with both hands, shivering. "Jesus, I can't tell you!"

   "You can tell me," Craig said, hoping he sounded calmer than he actually felt. "I'm-- here for you, I guess. Nobody else needs to know."

   "Well, they said." Tweek stopped, and took in a breath. "I don't know how to explain!" He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, digging into the sockets. "Can you get me some coffee? They said I wasn't supposed to have coffee but I'm so thirsty. I think I'm dehydrated!"

   Craig touched the scratchy blue blanket that was draped over Tweek's legs. There was no chair beside the bed, and it felt awkward to be standing. "Coffee wont help if you're dehydrated," he said. "I can get you some water?"

   "Forget it." Absent-mindedly, Tweek reached for Craig's hand again. This time, Craig allowed it, reasoning that if he didn't, no-one else would. Tweek's palm was damp, though his hands were cold. "They, uh, they said the nausea and stuff, that's normal, from coming off my medication, but they found something else. I have other symptoms." Tweek squeezed his eyes shut. "They said-- it's withdrawal from methamphetamine?"

   "Holy shit," Craig said. For a second, he was mildly impressed. Then it passed, and he just felt ill, his stomach lurching. "When did you start doing meth?"

   "I didn't! I've never done meth! I don't even drink alcohol, Craig, oh my God!" Tweek said. "They're saying I'm an addict! How can I be an addict when I've never even..." he trailed off, shaking. "Gah!"

   "Are they sure?" Craig asked. "Did you tell them about your... diagnoses?"

   "Yes! But they did a drug test! A urine test! And a blood test too, Craig, it was awful." Tweek looked at the valve on his hand and shuddered. "This can't be happening to me!"

   "Maybe I should get someone else," Craig said, pulling away.

   "No, please. Craig." Tweek fixed him with a serious look. "You have to tell them."

   "Tell them what?"

   "Tell them I'm not lying!" Tweek's voice cracked and with it, his calm dissolved. He pulled at his hair, some strands coming loose in his fists. "Oh, Jesus! Nobody believes me!"

   "I believe you," Craig said, genuinely, though he couldn't quite understand why. Tweek was a good liar -- especially under pressure. "You can calm down," he added, and then regretted it. Tweek hated being told to calm down; Craig could hear his breaths speed up, getting shallower.

   "No, I can't!" Tweek said.

   "Yes you can," said Craig.

   "Why is that nurse staring at me?" Tweek all but cried. Craig glanced over; the nurse had her back to them, writing something down in a file.

   Craig sighed. "Because she's totally checking you out. You want me to tell her you're not interested?"

   "Um. No, that's okay." Tweek stared at the ceiling for almost a full minute, as though hypnotized by the pattern of the tiles, though his breathing didn't slow. "I don't know what's going on," he said eventually. He seemed to calm for a second, until what he had said distressed him and he screamed into his hands. "Now I sound like that freaking towel!"

   Craig glanced back at the nurse again, hoping she didn't hear that.

   "Can you let me get Token? Or Clyde?" Craig asked, wishing he had a better selection of friends to offer up. Like Butters, who was still in the van, probably asleep, using the steering wheel as a pillow. "Someone needs to stay with you, I think."

   "I don't know, man, just." Tweek lay back and covered his face with one hand. "Call my parents."

   "I can't call your parents," Craig said. "We're in Indiana."

   "Well I don't want anyone else seeing me like this! Oh, god, like it makes a difference!" Tweek was almost yelling, and the nurse was staring for real now, making the hairs on the back of Craig's neck stand up as he struggled to ignore her. "Of all the things that could happen with my ex, it had to be this! It had to be now! You think I'm addicted to meth!"

   "Tweek." Craig sighed. "I actually do believe you. And as soon as you calm down, I'll go tell the doctor."

   "God! Okay," said Tweek. He took in a deep breath, and then let it out again. Then he brushed some hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear. "Okay. I'm calming down."

   "Good," Craig said. "I'll be right back."  

   He left the ward, and wandered around a corner and through a set of double doors, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Tweek had asked for him. They had held hands, bizarrely. Craig wasn't sure what this meant, if anything. Probably just that Tweek was presently too out of it to care whose sweaty palms he was clutching at, Craig decided, and he walked until he located what appeared to be a doctor, doing something at the nurses' station. He could also see a coffee machine, and approached it first, fumbling in his pocket for some change as he went.

   Craig stared at the interface, intimidated. He expected it to feel nostalgic, but then realised that it didn't, at all. Craig had never used one of these machines before in his life, because Tweek had always had a thermos with him, even during late-night ER runs. He hesitated, realising he could not actually remember how Tweek liked his coffee. Black, Craig assumed, so he filled a flimsy paper cup with the watery blend and grimaced at how completely unappetising it looked. He also purchased two small plastic-wrapped oatmeal cookies from a nearby vending machine, and put them in his back pocket, thinking of how empty Tweek's stomach must be.

   He sidled over to the doctor next. He was a tall man in a button down shirt, but he was not as tall as Craig, which made Craig feel gangly and out place by comparison. The coffee cup felt conspicuous in his hand. Craig hoped it made him look more like an adult who knew what he was doing in life, and not just some idiot smuggling caffeine to an already agitated patient.

   Still, Craig said hello in his practiced-polite, worked-in-retail-for-six-years way, ascertained that this man was treating Tweek, and then cleared his throat, unsure where to go from here.

   "Look, so," Craig began, "I think there's been a misunderstanding here. Tweek is a nervous wreck."

   "Yes," the doctor said. He was looking at a chart, only kind of listening. "It's a common symptom."

   "No, not right now. I mean he's always a nervous wreck," Craig said. He looked down at the linoleum, stumped by the prospect of explaining Tweek to someone who had never witnessed him in a neutral situation. "He hasn't even touched, like, cigarettes, and they're supposed to be calming, right?" he asked, then glanced up for a reaction. The doctor gave him a disapproving look; Craig sighed and looked away. "Can you imagine him buying drugs, honestly? He's like, a hypochondriac, and he doesn't like... new sensations. It has to be a mistake. Can you test him again?"

   The doctor gave Craig a long look. Without thinking, Craig took a drink of the coffee, attempting to act, momentarily, like a normal person, who was not doing what he was doing. It was boiling hot and tasted horrible, and he winced.

   "If we re-did drug tests for everyone who claimed there was a mistake..."

   "I know, but--"

   "All we want is for him to get help. He isn't in any trouble."

   "Don't you think maybe you could've mixed his results up with someone else's?" Craig asked, though even as he said it, he felt very aware of how ridiculous he was beginning to sound. The doctor looked exhausted; Craig almost pitied this man. How many addicts had come through here trying this same routine, or enlisting their friends to do so?

   "Maybe, if we had a lot of people in here right now who were experiencing paranoid delusions."

   "Oh come on." Craig shifted his weight, feeling his blood pressure rise. "If he were experiencing paranoid delusions, he'd be under the bed right now crying about aliens. But is he? No." The doctor gave him a blank look, and Craig wondered if this was what Tweek's parents used to go through at Hell's Pass, in the hours or minutes before a nurse would appear with a handful of little pills and Tweek would finally relax, so much so that he usually fell asleep on Craig's shoulder in the car on the way home. "Can you just give him some sedatives so we can leave, please?"

   A pause. The doctor glanced down at his chart, and then up at Craig again. "Excuse me?"

   "Just, you know." Craig looked around, concerned that he was being watched. There were a few nurses milling back and forth; two women sitting on plastic chairs outside a ward, one of them crying into her hands. "Can you get him to loosen up so we can take him home?"

   "Your friend needs a treatment plan."

   "I don't think he wants any more treatment."

   "I understand that this is coming as a shock to you, but he has a problem."

    "Right." Craig rolled his eyes, no longer concerned about seeming rude. "Except for the part where he's been like this since he was a kid and we grew up together and I feel like I would know if he'd been doing meth this entire time," Craig said, though the longer he spoke, the less certain he felt. Who was he to say what Tweek had been up to for the last four years? They weren't exactly friends. Not even on Facebook. "He's mentally ill," Craig added, and accompanied this statement with a meaningful glance. This, at least, he could be sure about.

   "It's not uncommon for substance abuse to overlap with mental illness, unfortunately," the doctor said. "Normally we would recommend a transfer to a dedicated centre. Rehab," he added, at Craig's lack of a reaction. "These symptoms could persist for days. Sometimes weeks. It won't be easy for him to go through this alone."

   "Okay," said Craig. "Well at my town's hospital they usually recommend giving him so much Xanax or whatever that he passes out, and that seems to work just fine."  

   The quiet felt suddenly deafening. All Craig could hear was the tap-tap of nurses using the computers at the station, the distant squeak of gurney wheels; the crying. He let out a deep breath, trying not to get caught up in trying to pinpoint exactly which element of this treatment he thought was _fine_. Tweek went along with it, which was all that mattered. All those times before, Tweek falling asleep in the car had been, to Craig, the sign that the night was over, and that he could finally relax, too.

   Craig grew tense while the doctor looked him over, appearing mildly critical. Then said, "I suppose I'll see what I can do." 

   The doctor went back to his work, and Craig left, feeling satisfied with this response. Then he realised he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, and had no idea where he was. He backtracked, passing the same doctor again and avoiding his gaze, and after around five minutes found himself back at Tweek's ward, surprised but relieved to find Tweek lying down and looking only a little happy to see him, which seemed a lot more in character than before, as far as Craig was concerned.

   "The nurse gave me something while you were gone," Tweek explained when Craig gave him his coffee and cookies. He looked up at the ceiling, and frowned. "Maybe I'll get addicted to benzos next."

   "I doubt it." Craig sat on the edge of bed, and barely avoided crushing one of Tweek's legs. When they were kids, Craig had always insisted on crawling into hospital beds with Tweek, whether he was allowed to or not. Now it seemed unthinkable that they had both fit onto one narrow mattress. "They want you to go to a treatment centre."

   "Oh, Jesus, no." Tweek put his coffee on the bedside table, his eyes widening. "Are you for real?"

   Craig shrugged. "That's what he said."

   "I can't believe this!" Tweek said. A moment later he'd thrown off his blanket and was on his feet, clutching at his hair again. "I can't even go two weeks without somebody treating me for something! I'm tired of this! I want out! I want out!"

   "Dude--"

   "How did I get back here!" Tweek demanded, his voice cracking. "How did I let this happen again, Craig?" 

   Craig blinked at him. "...This has happened before?"

   "Well not this _specifically_! Just in general! It's always something!" Tweek was forced into silence for a moment while a spasm took him, and he grunted, twitching. "I can't ever catch a break! I can't just live my life! My mom and dad will have a field day when they find out about this -- gah!"

   "Tweek, sit down." Craig patted the mattress, but he had grown tense. A nurse was hovering, and he didn't trust her not to cause a scene, which would make this exponentially worse, Craig was sure. "Please just sit down."

   "I'm leaving," Tweek said, though he didn't move. "I'm walking out of here."

   "I thought you liked hospitals," Craig said, a little desperately. "Don't you feel safer here?" 

   "No. I don't feel safe. I don't feel safe at all! There are narcotics inside of my body, Craig! How did they get there?" Tweek sat down heavily on the bed, beside Craig, and stared down at his own knees, wide-eyed. "Do you think it could be like that movie? Where I go to sleep and a split personality takes over and does meth?!"

   "When do you ever sleep?" Craig asked him, after a pause. 

    "I don't know," Tweek moaned, and put his head in his hands. "I don't know anything, man. This just can't be happening. I can't _be_  here! None of this feels real." He looked up, horrified. "Oh god! What if none of this is real?"

   "It is real," Craig said, before Tweek could take this theory any further. "As in, it's real that you're here in a hospital in Indiana, and I'm with you, and for some reason there's meth involved." 

   There was a long silence. Craig listened to Tweek take several measured breaths. "You know," Tweek said, quietly, "you're the only person I really trust when they say that it's real." 

   He shifted closer, and rested his cheek on Craig's shoulder. Craig let him, and tried not to look alarmed by the gesture, though his heart had begun to pound. 

   "It is," Craig said. Tweek had closed his eyes; Craig wondered if he would fall asleep. He hoped not -- not yet. "And guess what? It's also real that you'll be discharged pretty soon and we'll figure out a way to get you home."

   "Home? No way, man! I'm staying." To Craig's immense relief, Tweek sat up straight again in order to fix Craig with an incredulous and slightly annoyed look. "Butters told me he waited like, two years before he even rented a place. He lived on the road. On people's couches. He told me he slept on Kenny's couch for six months in Florida. He told me so many of these tall blonde girls stay at Kenny's place that if I let my hair down, he wouldn't even notice the difference!"

   "That's..." Craig paused, and realised he had no reason to protest. He shrugged. "Sure, Tweek. Whatever. Live your life."

   "You know what, Craig? I am living my life," Tweek said. He reached for his coffee, took a sip, and then made a face. "Ugh! Was this the only coffee they had?" At Craig's nod, he placed it back on the table, and Craig had to resist the urge to reach out and steady his trembling hand, because the cup had not come with a lid. "It's so weak!"

   "It came from a machine."

   "We need to stop at a Starbucks on the way back, man." Tweek pulled his shoulders up, and shuddered. "I can't take this."

   Craig nodded his silent agreement. He reached for one of the cookies and unwrapped it, eating it slowly while Tweek sipped at the coffee, making the occasional disgusted noise. The cookie wasn't great either -- it was too soft and too coarse and the oats stuck in his teeth, but eating it at least gave Craig something to do while Tweek drank and some nurses came and went, sweeping the curtains closed around a bed on the other side of the room, and then ushering in what looked like an entire extended family, crowding around one limping child.

   "So," Craig said, because he was unsure what they were waiting for. He balled up the plastic wrapper and tossed it into the wastebasket beside the bed. "Should we just bail?" 

   Tweek nodded. "I think so."

   "You have the thing in your hand," Craig pointed out, gesturing to it. There was a hint of red where the tube was stuck into his skin, which was really quite disgusting.

   "I know. I can feel it." Tweek looked down at his hand, flexed his fingers, and winced. "I don't think I can pull it out."

   "I'm not pulling it out," Craig said.

   "Should I leave it in?"

   Tiredly, Craig called a nurse over to request that Tweek be discharged, and they both averted their eyes while the catheter was removed and the wound covered up by a little round band-aid. Tweek looked at the ceiling, so Craig looked at the floor until the nurse took it away and left them alone. Then Tweek put on his shoes and scraped his hair messily into another ponytail, and Craig watched him, fascinated, in his exhaustion, that such a thing could be done without a mirror.

   It wasn't long before the doctor arrived to formally dismiss them. He looked markedly suspicious of Craig, but let them go, recommending only that Tweek stay hydrated and rested and supervised for the next few days. "Maybe by your parents," he said, in a way that implied it was more of an instruction than a suggestion. 

   "Don't even get me started on my parents," Tweek muttered, addressing his own knees.

   When he was gone, Craig got to his feet and offered his arm to Tweek, and then felt weird about it when Tweek stood effortlessly and only stared at him. They both walked back to the waiting room with their hands in their pockets. Tweek seemed lost in thought, and Craig didn't really want to disturb him. Now that the end seemed finally in sight, all he could concentrate on was crawling into bed.

   They found Token, Bebe and Clyde already in their coats and talking amongst themselves just outside of the front doors. The night air stung at Craig's exposed arms, and he was grateful when Bebe handed him his jacket, and felt bad that she was still wearing her clothes from the show, which consisted of red shorts and a t-shirt ripped in several places. Her own jacket did little, and she was shivering.

   "All clear?" she asked Tweek. The night was exceptionally quiet and Craig imagined that they would have stood out from a distance, their little Stonehenge circle on the flat expanse of grey paving. It was still cold, but after the artificial heat that had been blasting inside, it came as a relief.

   "Not exactly," Craig said, as he pulled his jacket on.

   "Craig!"

   "What?"

   "You said nobody else needed to know," hissed Tweek.

   "Okay," Craig said, raising an eyebrow. "Then you tell them."

   "There's nothing to tell!" Tweek insisted. "God! I just want to get out of here, please."

   "'Kay, well, we're feeling pretty awake, so we're going to this bar we found that's just across the street," Bebe said. Some of her mascara had smeared below her left eye, Craig noticed. Had it always been? He couldn't remember. "You in?" 

   Craig checked his phone, pointlessly. He already knew it was past two am. "I thought we were running kind of late."

   "Aw, come on, Craig. What's another hour?" she said, grinning. Clyde grinned along as well, though he didn't look as awake as Bebe had claimed. Token was on his phone -- probably still on whatever app had informed them where the closest bar was. "How about you, Tweek?" she said, casting her smile in his direction. 

   "I think I just want to go to bed," Tweek said, wrapping his arms around himself.

   "So do I," said Craig. Then he remembered where they were. Their cushy hotel room in Chicago was behind them now; they were on the road, five people in a four-person sleeper. "I don't know. Maybe I'll come. I want to call Kenny first and tell him what happened."

   " _Why_?" Tweek whined, abruptly grabbing at his own hair. "What's with you and telling everyone?!"

   "Because otherwise they'll pull up in Detriot and realise you're missing and think you got left behind," Craig said coolly. "And I don't want to get up early in the morning to deal with it, so, yeah."

   "Ugh!" was all Tweek had to say to this.

   "Wow. What crawled up your ass?" asked Bebe, amused.

   "Nothing crawled up my ass. We just didn't all get to take a nap in the waiting room," Craig snapped. Bebe raised her eyebrows; Token looked up from his phone, and at least had the decency to look impassive, but even that was enough to be judge-y, coming from Token. Craig sighed. "Sorry. It's just been a really long night."

   "Yeah. Get some rest," Bebe said, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. Then she turned to Tweek and said, "We'll walk you to the van, okay?"

   "I will get some rest," Craig said, delayed, but they were already walking off, and nobody looked back. He stood there for a while, watching them go. Then he walked off also, in the opposite direction. There was a glass awning over a path that lined this side of the building, and he wandered until he reached the end of it. There was a planter with some rocks, and a fern. Craig contemplated sitting down on the low concrete edge of it, but decided he'd rather stand. 

   He dialled Kenny's number. An ambulance was coming into the bay, the sharp sirens cutting through the still night, and Craig pressed the phone closer against his ear and cupped his palm over the other one.

   "Kenny?" he said, when the dial tone ended and the line came to life.

   "Craig?"

   "Hey," Craig said. "Uh. Sorry if I woke you up."

   "Dude, are you okay?" Kenny asked, sounding wide awake. "Am I hearing sirens right now?"

   "Yeah." Suddenly Craig felt the weight of the whole situation, and the burden of having to explain it, and the exhaustion that had been creeping up on him all night. He touched the rough brick wall of the building, feeling faint. "We're fine, but we got kind of delayed. We should be on time for the show, but--"

   "Hold on, I'm putting you on loudspeaker."

   "Okay." Craig waited, and the line crackled momentarily. He continued, "We should be on time for tonight but we've been at this hospital in Indiana for hours because Tweek had an emergency and we had to deal with it."

   "Oh, Jesus Christ, what is it this time? Another Chinese phone hacking?" said Cartman, blearily, from a distance. He sounded how Craig felt; half-asleep, impatient. "Did aliens steal his fingerprints?" Someone laughed -- it sounded like Stan.

   "I can hear you, dickhole," said Craig. "For your information, he just almost died of methamphetamine withdrawal."

   Kenny snorted. "You can't die from methamphetamine withdrawal."

   "Wait, excuse me? Can we just rewind for a second here?" came Kyle's voice, shrill and urgent, and Craig wanted to sigh. " _What_?"

   "Yeah, I don't know." Craig looked out across the mostly-deserted parking lot. "He said it was a mix-up, but the tests came back positive."

   "And you _believed_ him?" Kyle scoffed. "Have you ever met a meth addict in your _life_?"

   "Have you?" Craig asked.

   "That's beside the point, Craig, and I think you know that."

   "Well. I guess I do believe him," Craig said, not appreciating how stupid this was making him feel. "I mean, where would you even get meth in South Park?" 

   "Uh," Kenny said.

   "Well, who says he got it in South Park?" Stan pointed out. "We've just been through like five cities. Anything could've happened."

   "Uh-huh. That's Tweek alright," Craig said, tonelessly. "Walking right up to a drug dealer in a strange city and buying meth from them. Good thinking. You convinced me."

   "Maybe he wouldn't have to talk to a stranger," Kyle said, weighing this with some significance that Craig couldn't comprehend.

   "Kyle!" Stan said. "Jesus Christ!"

   Someone covered the receiver with their hand. Craig only heard muffled voices, growing louder. He strained to make out words, but nothing coherent came through until the hand was taken away again and Kenny was saying, "Are you _serious_  right now?"

   "I'm just saying, it's a _pretty fucking huge_ coincidence--"

   "You need to calm down," Kenny said.

   "Don't tell me to calm down!" Kyle shrieked. "I knew from the moment we stepped onto this bus that you were going to fuck up the tour, and I was totally right!"

   "I'm gonna call you back, Craig," Kenny said.

   "No--" Kyle said, from a distance, then there was static and his voice came through clearly. "Tweek's fucking fired."

   "Um, what?" Craig said, after a beat.

   "He's fired! Send him back to Colorado or wherever you dredged him up from! I don't want him anywhere near us ever again."

   Craig pulled the phone away from his ear so that Kyle did not deafen him. "What are you talking about? He doesn't even work for you," he said.

   "So what are you saying?" Kyle said, dangerously. "That _you_  want to be fired?"

   "Dude, we're not firing anybody," Stan said in the background. Craig could barely hear him. "We need to think about this. We just need to, like, have a conversation, okay--"

   "Don't get your panties in a twist just because some roadie isn't going along with your Jew-Mormon crap, Kyle," said Cartman, from somewhere, sounding like he might laugh. "I bet they're all doing coke on the crew bus right now. Who gives a shit?"

   " _You_ can go to hell," Kyle said. "You're just as bad as Kenny! It's like none of you even care."

   "Shut the _fuck up_ , Kyle," Kenny said. Something hit the receiver again; Kenny grabbing the phone back. Then the line went dead.

   Craig looked at his phone screen, feeling uneasy, and unsure what he had just started. Did he really care if Tweek got fired? He couldn't tell. He didn't exactly care for the idea of Tweek sticking around, but he also couldn't imagine sending him back to South Park with some Kyle-funded plane ticket, back to parents he'd deemed worth running away from and what Craig imagined to be endless shifts in the backroom of Tweak Bros, sorting coffee beans or reading books or whatever he did there.

   Craig exhaled deeply, resting his full weight again the wall. He had never understood Tweek's supposedly vital role in the family business. In their childhood, he'd seen Tweek's part-time job as nothing but a cruel ploy to separate them. In adulthood, it was a mild inconvenience that meant Craig was effectively banned from the town's only affordable cafe, because had he never been able to stand the thought of running into not only Tweek, but also his parents. Craig hadn't so much as spoken to either of them since he was fourteen, and he didn't want to imagine what they would say to him now.

   A breeze came, and ruffled his hair. He looked back at the tour bus, and hesitated. He was pretty sure the only way he'd feel better was by sleeping it off, even if it meant steadfastly ignoring Tweek until they arrived in Detroit and could get rid of him, whatever that meant. With this in mind he trekked across the parking lot, glancing over his shoulder a few times, feeling a little creeped out by how deserted it was. There were no stars out tonight, giving the impression that the edges of the asphalt that faded into darkness just stretched into infinity; a great abyss.

   Craig turned away from it and let himself in, finding the bus warm and the lingering smell -- dry shampoo and unwashed clothes -- vaguely comforting.  

   He was made less comfortable when he found that Tweek was in his bed again.

   Craig stood in the narrow space between the two sets of bunks and looked down at him. He was curled up on his side and facing away, but seemed wide awake; still shivering, but nowhere near as badly as before.

   "What are you doing here?" Craig asked him.

   "You know, I always knew you were a bottom," said Tweek without turning around.

   Craig froze. "Excuse me?"

   In a limp sort of way, Tweek gestured at the bunk above, closing his eyes.

   "Oh. Hilarious." Craig relaxed a little, and then looked around, unimpressed. "So where am I supposed to sleep?" 

   Wordlessly, Tweek shifted closer to the wall and then peeled the covers back. Craig balked at this, but he knew he had nowhere else to go, and decided he was too tired to put up a fight about the inevitable. Like they hadn't slept in the same bed a thousand times before in their lives. What did once more matter, really?

   "What did they give you?" he asked as he crawled in beside Tweek, after kicking off his shoes but without removing any of his clothes, glad that Tweek had had the same idea. He tried to keep a good distance between their bodies, but the mattress felt tiny and cramped even when Craig was alone, and he could feel Tweek's lower back touching his side.

   "I don't know. Valium, maybe. Valium can cause seizures and a loss of bladder control," Tweek said, flatly. "But the Valium is making me not care."

   "Oh," Craig said.

   Then there was silence. Craig felt both extremely tired and extremely awake. He began to count the knots in the wooden slab that comprised the underside of Clyde's bunk; they had not pulled the curtains, so enough light came in to do so. He considered, not for the first time, how dangerous it was that their beds didn't have slats, like a bunkbed, but were actual sheets of solid, presumably cheap, lumber that had little give. Craig wondered if they'd have time to fix this next time they had a week-long stopover someplace. From reading the itinerary Bebe had made, he'd surmised that there would be breaks in New York, Florida, and California. It wasn't a rushed tour -- Craig assumed that Moop having nothing to do with the festival circuit made their schedule a lot more relaxed than most North American summertime tours. How hard would it be to go to a hardware store or something and get some wood slats and elastic? The longer Craig lay there, the more he resented the sight of the slab above him. It made being in bed feel a little bit like being in a coffin.

   "How long has it been since we slept in the same bed?" Tweek asked abruptly. Drowsily. Craig thought he sounded like he was on the very brink of falling asleep, which probably explained his inability to do the math.

   "Uh," Craig said. "Like eight years."

   "Huh."

   "Yeah." 

   Tweek stretched, and then rolled over. Craig could see in his periphery that he was being looked at. Stared at, even. Out of the corner of his eye, he met Tweek's gaze, and found him unflinching. "Kinda feels like longer," Tweek said.

   Unable to take it anymore, Craig turned to face Tweek fully and said, "What is _with_  you?"

   "What do you mean, what's with me?" asked Tweek, suddenly wide-eyed.

   "You know we're not getting back together," Craig told him flatly. 

   Tweek shifted away, minutely, and pulled the duvet tightly around himself, like a cocoon. "I don't want you back, Craig. You treated me like shit."

   "Wow, okay." Craig rolled onto his back again, and huffed out a breath. "I'm just saying, I'm over you."

   Tweek snorted. "You were over me while we were still dating!"

   "I guess so," Craig said, after thinking about it for a second. "It was for the best that we broke up." 

   Huddled in his blankets, Tweek faced the wall. "I don't care that we broke up, you were just a dick about it. You know? You were my best friend for four years and then you just disappeared like you didn't even know me anymore. And do you know who came to the ER with me after that?" A pause. "Clyde. Have you ever been to the ER with Clyde? He cries, Craig. A lot! He caused a bigger scene than I did."

   Craig was stunned. He hadn't known, but he also didn't want to let on, so he said, "That's why you asked for me this time?"

   Tweek looked back over his shoulder. "I was on fucking meth, Craig. Okay?"

   "No you weren't."

   "Well, it was in my system. In my urine! Jesus Christ, I still can't believe it." Tweek pulled the duvet all the way up over his head, curling up. "This is really the worst day of my entire life!"

   Craig said nothing, but felt unsettled. It was getting hard to believe that there had really been a mistake at the hospital -- hard for Tweek to believe, even, and as far as Craig knew, Tweek still wholeheartedly believed in gnomes and some kind of underwear theft conspiracy. Who was he to think his history with Tweek meant anything, really? He'd been left to his own devices for eight entire years. Maybe he'd been a recluse for reasons other than his default state of paranoia. Maybe Craig was the one who'd turned out better in the end, somehow.

   "Craig?" Tweek said, after several minutes that Craig spent pretending to sleep, but feeling extremely aware of the fact that Tweek was doing the same next to him, a tension building. Tweek had poked his head out from under the blankets. His face was flushed from the heat, his irises black in the darkness.

   Craig could not meet his eyes. He felt an apology lingering on the tip of his tongue, and for what? Being a friend? Holding Tweek's fucking hand? He swallowed it down and said, "Yeah?"

   "Remember when we were kids," Tweek began, "um, that year, around midterms? With the whole-- alien, thing?"

   "I remember," Craig said, because he did. Tweek had taken the concept of standardized testing way too seriously their first year of junior high, and worked himself half to death over them until his bedroom became a sort of China graveyard of empty coffee cups and his hands were permanently covered in inked notes. He'd stay awake for days at a time, biting his nails and shaking, and as exam week drew closer he began spinning incoherent theories about alien abductions and probings, children being stolen in their sleep.

   "Remember when you used to sit up with me all night and uh, brush my hair, to, you know. Calm me down?"

   "Mm."

   "Just, I was wondering. I have a hairbrush in my bag."

   "Jesus, Tweek." Craig propped himself up on one elbow, and looked down at Tweek in disbelief. "No. Didn't you hear what I just said?"

   "What?"

   "We're done. Permanently. Forever."

   "I know that!" Tweek said, and sat up also. His hair stuck up in all directions, and his eyes were huge. "God! I didn't ask you to suck my dick, Craig, it just really helped!"

   "Look, no," Craig said. "I'm not falling into this again. You're like some kind of vortex."

   "What?" Tweek said. "What does that mean?"

   "You always wanted me to do one more thing for you. And then another thing. And I did it because I feel sorry for you. But then it never ends."

   "You felt _sorry_  for me?" said Tweek, incredulous. He pushed some hair out of his eyes, and his shoulder twitched.

   "Yeah. Sometimes I felt sorry for you," Craig said without breaking eye contact, though he could feel something inside him cracking; a swelling, escaping, lava-boiling feeling that he knew meant he should shut up, and shut up now. But he didn't. "It makes it hard to say no," he said.

   "So you're saying, what, it was like pity-dating? Because you couldn't say no to me?" Tweek asked, his eyebrows raising. "For four fucking years? Craig?"

   Craig stared. He was speechless for several seconds. "How is that even close to what I just said?"

   "I'm pretty sure that is _literally_  what you just said." 

   Craig stood up, done with the conversation. He wanted to say a lot of things, but in the end his parting words were, "I'm not brushing your hair."

   "Screw you," Tweek said. "I'll brush my own hair!"

   Craig snatched up his jacket and walked to the side door seething. He found it slightly ajar, which was weird, but inconsequential. He left the van and slammed the door behind him. The chill in the air hit him immediately and the sound pierced through the night like a shot being fired, making him flinch. He disembarked the steps, and then proceeded to almost trip over Clyde, who was sitting on the ground, in the shadow.

   Clyde looked up guiltily and Craig stared back at him, unfocused. He felt like the world was upside down, the ground pulled from under him. And here Clyde was, for some reason, eyeing him with all the wariness of a child caught stealing from a cookie jar, still wearing his fucking t-shirt that said 'COLORADICAL' and sitting Indian-style with his legs crossed and his phone beside him but not lit up, like he'd been fiddling it with but abandoned it minutes ago.

   "...I didn't want to interrupt," Clyde said. He had the collar of his jacket up, and Craig wondered how long he'd been there, waiting in the cold. Long enough to sit down, apparently. "I had to pee and the bathroom at that place looked sketchy as hell, so." He shrugged. "Sorry."

   Craig shifted his gaze down to the asphalt, temporarily fixated on it. Then he realised he was standing there in his socks, having left his shoes next to his bunk. "Don't be. I wish you had interrupted," he said. For a moment he stood with his arms limp by his sides, at a loss for what to do with himself. Then he decided _fuck it_ , and sat down on the steps, hunching over to rest his elbows on his knees. "How much did you hear?"

   "Um," Clyde said, hesitating. "I don't think you want to know."

   "Oh, God." Craig put his head in his hands and threaded his fingers into his hair, pushing his hat back so far that it slipped off. He felt it fall onto the step behind him, and did not care. "I can physically feel you judging me."

   "Why would I be judging you?" Clyde asked, in his monotone way, which kind of helped. He was strangely good at convincing people he had no opinions about anything, until suddenly he did.

   "It's this whole Tweek thing..." Craig said. "I feel like it's always going to be weird. Like every time we're in the same room it just opens this Pandora's box of just... shit. Just, everywhere. It really can't be contained."

   "It can't be that bad," Clyde said, though he had the decency to look kind of sympathetic. "You guys broke up in middle school."

   "No, it really is that bad. You should know. You were listening," Craig said, glancing at him. Then he felt bad about it, because it wasn't Clyde's fault he had to pee. Craig sighed. "How did you and Bebe pull it off?"

   As far as he knew, Clyde and Bebe had split because they both wanted to pursue other people. Bebe had, but Clyde mostly tried and failed to seduce girls at various parties, and at the time Craig had wondered if he had made it amicable only because he didn't want to be dumped, pathetically, by a girl who was a little out of his league. Craig assumed his own ancient relationship debris must look like a massive, decade-long temper tantrum by comparison.

   "We did a lot of talking, mostly..." Clyde paused, and looked Craig over, clearly unsure whether he should continue. "...She didn't break up with me by text message."

   "What else was I supposed to do?" said Craig. "I thought he might, like. Start crying, or something."

   "Well, yeah, he might've. You're just supposed to deal with it. But I'm not judging you," Clyde added quickly.

   Craig reached behind himself and retrieved his hat, already feeling cold and slightly naked without it. He held it in his hands and stroked the fabric with his thumb, absent-mindedly. The seam had split on one of the ear flaps, he noticed, and realised that he felt uncharacteristically sad about it.

   "It wasn't that simple," Craig said. "There was a lot going on at the time. We couldn't just sit down and talk about it. I mean, like you said-- we were in middle school. Who can have a productive discussion when they're in middle school?" Craig played with the frayed edges of the puffball, until threads came away between his fingers.

   "I don't think that's a great excuse," Clyde said, after several seconds. Craig sighed, because he'd been thinking the same thing. He was beginning to realise that things he'd been telling himself for years seemed wildly irrational now that he was saying them out loud.

   "Well," Craig said, trying a different tactic, "there was also the fact that I liked somebody else."

   Clyde raised his eyebrows. "That's why you broke up with him?"

   "It wasn't _why_  -- it was just a factor. Like things had already gone to hell to the degree that I was, you know. Ready to move on." Craig held eye contact, hoping that this would somehow allow Clyde to tap into what it had been like for him, back then, being fourteen and struck with that sudden sense of clarity, that knowledge that the relationship he was so lucky to have was not the one that he wanted. "So," he continued, averting his gaze back down to his feet, "I guess I didn't really see the point in sticking around just to coddle him about it. Tweek hates being coddled about stuff."

   "Yeah," Clyde agreed. Or did he? -- Craig was unsure. Maybe he had just caught on to the fact that Craig was too stubborn to be moved, and that it was time to change the subject. Clyde let seconds pass before he glanced up at Craig and asked, "Who did you like?"

   "Uh." Craig hadn't planned this far ahead, and found himself blanking. "Jimmy," he eventually said. Unconvincingly, he thought, though he wasn't strictly lying. He'd had a fleeting crush on just about every single male classmate he had at one time or another -- at least during elementary and middle school, where their entire grade had maybe forty kids or less. He viewed this as a normal thing, considering the other kids at his school seemed to change partners every five seconds at that age, with just a few notable exceptions.

   "Huh," Clyde said. "You should've went for it. I think Jimmy is totally heteroflexible."

   "There's no such thing as heteroflexible," Craig told him.

   "What?" Clyde looked at him like he was speaking another language. "Yeah, there is." 

   "Okay. No there isn't. 'Heteroflexible' just means 'bi and in denial'." Craig stretched his legs, balancing his heels on the asphalt. He was growing increasingly embarrassed the more he continued his explanation, but couldn't bring himself to stop. "Think about it. It's not like there are gay people who are _occasionally_  into the opposite sex, right? They'd just be bisexual with a preference." Craig shook his head. "You can't be straight and sometimes like guys. Then what does 'straight' even mean?"

   "Oh," Clyde said. "That makes sense."

   "Anyway, I don't think Jimmy is heteroflexible," Craig said. "Not that it matters. It was just, you know. A crush."

   "You never told me." Clyde kept peering up at him. "Did you have other crushes?"

   "Of course I did," Craig said. He felt his cheeks growing hot despite himself -- like this could possibly be embarrassing in the face of Clyde, who seemed to relay every detail of every bodily function on a whim, having lost his sense of modesty at an early age and never gaining it back at puberty like most people did. All Craig was admitting was that he had _feelings_. That he hadn't become emotionally frozen at fourteen, even though that was how it probably looked from the outside. "I couldn't just tell people, Clyde. It's not like with you. People wouldn't find it cute or flattering if they found out, and it's not like anything could've happened." He traced one finger over the ridges of the knit pattern on the outside of his hat. "They were just inconveniences."

   "I wasn't saying you should've told _people_." Clyde frowned. "I said me. I wouldn't tell anyone."

   "I know, but it's weird to talk about about your gay crushes with your straight friends."

   "Who says?"

   "Me," Craig said. "I do."

   "I don't think it's weird. It was a big part of your life, Craig." Clyde looked vaguely wounded. "Now I feel like I missed it."

   "You didn't miss anything. My entire potential dating pool consisted of Tweek and Kyle. And apparently, Butters." Craig managed a laugh, though he didn't really find it funny. "I was doomed from the start."

   "What's wrong with Butters?"

   "He's not my type," Craig said. 

   "He's not?" Clyde asked. "I always figured your type was like Tweek. You know, small... fragile."

   "Tweek isn't small."

   "He's smaller than you."

   "No. He got fat," Craig said, and immediately regretted it, because Tweek was almost the same size as he had been at graduation, and the only person Craig knew who'd gotten markedly squishier over the years was Clyde himself. He bowed his head, screwing his eyes shut. "I don't know why I said that. He didn't get fat and I wouldn't care if he did. I don't have a type."

   "Okay," Clyde said. "Yeah. I don't think I do either."

   "I thought you only liked blonde girls," Craig said, raising his head slightly.

   "Um, no." Clyde shot Craig a look. "Dude, Trinity."

   "Right. Trinity." Craig put his chin in his hand. "And then, Jaclyn."

   "Well, I don't know." Clyde fidgeted where he was sitting, shifting to put his feet in front of him and his knees up. He was looking towards the line of trees in front of the hospital building; the little poplars that cast long, dark shadows in their wake. "I really wasn't that into her."

   "She was pretty into you," Craig said. 

   "Nah." Slowly, Clyde shook his head. "Not really. I think she was just all juiced up from meeting Kenny and everything and she would've taken it from anybody. She didn't give me her number. And I didn't ask."

   Craig stared at him for a long time. "Please do not say 'juiced up' to me ever again."

   "Well, she was," Clyde said, hunching his shoulders. "I'm just saying, it was mutually opportunistic."

   "Mutually opportunistic." Craig found himself smirking, though he was more horrified than pleased by this information. "That's one way of putting it."  

   "Like you wouldn't have done the same thing if it had been some guy hitting on you," said Clyde -- presumptuously, in Craig's opinion, like he knew this for a _fact_ somehow. He was hugging his legs, now, and Craig was momentarily worried that he was becoming emotional, until he added, "Sometimes you just want to get your dick wet for the sake of it, and that's all there is to it."

   There was a lull in the conversation while Craig took in this statement -- the _phrasing_  -- and tried to figure out if he should be upset or amused by it. "First of all, don't assume what I would and wouldn't do," he said eventually. "Second of all, would you stop equating sex with excessive moisture, please?"  

   Clyde gave him a meaningful look. "If there isn't excessive moisture, you're doing it wrong."

   "Oh my god."

   They laughed together in the gloom, and Craig tipped his head back and caught a glimpse of the tiniest hint of sunrise on the horizon. The sky was clouded over; he imagined it would rain on the way to Detroit, and that he would spend the whole trip sitting at the dining bench, playing on his phone or maybe trying to write a song while his friends slept right through. Maybe he'd sit up front with Butters for a while. He understood that Butters liked to listen to extremely loud and grating music to keep himself awake through the night when he was driving. Craig wondered if he ever listened to Moop.

   After the silence had stretched on for a while, Clyde cleared his throat and said, "You know when I came over and heard the yelling, I thought maybe you were having sex."

   "With _Tweek_?" Craig said. "Ugh, God. That would be beyond weird even if he wasn't on Valium. He hates me."

   "You don't hate him?"

   "I don't _hate_  him," Craig decided. "That doesn't mean I want to _sleep_  with him."

   Clyde shrugged. "I thought maybe it was hatesex."

   "No." Craig considered a dramatic shudder, but thought better of it. Even Tweek didn't deserve that, really. Clyde was still watching him, and Craig felt he was expected to say more, so he added, "I don't even know if his dick is working again, for one thing."

   Craig meant this as a joke, and he was glad when Clyde laughed, which was really just a singular nasally "ha" sound, but it made Craig smile all the same. Laughing together at the expense of Tweek was something they hadn't done in a long time, which was strange. Mostly they laughed together at the expense of anyone. Craig thought of all the things he hadn't told Clyde about yet -- Stan's pre-show anxiety, and Kyle's status as some kind of gay icon, and Kenny's weird-looking pet, and Tweek being fired for apparently being a meth addict. He considered sharing, but decided that the silence was better.

   He was feeling better too, he realised. He still felt tired and achey and hungry and cold and sort of thirsty as well, but he at least felt more like himself -- more like he might actually sleep tonight. The rain began to come down, but only lightly. Clyde looked kind of lost in thought, and hadn't noticed. It was Craig's opinion that it was okay to sit in the rain from time to time, because, like the sun, it was a rare weather event in South Park, and so he didn't mind it.

   "So," Clyde said, sobering. Calmly, Craig met his eyes. "You and Tweek really didn't ever...?" He made a vague hand gesture, which Craig reluctantly observed. At once, the moment was dead and buried, but that was okay. Craig was the only one who'd felt it, clearly. Clyde misinterpreted his silence as a lack of understanding and elaborated, "...Do it...? Or?"

   "You know we didn't," Craig said, unsure what Clyde was getting at. As if Craig would have had a reason to lie. "We were basically children."

   "Sure, but, you know. Kids in South Park grow up kind of fast," Clyde said. Again, he shrugged, like there was something about this he couldn't put to words. "Sometimes I think it's crazy I lost my virginity before you. No offense," he said hurriedly, which was just as well, because Craig was a little offended. It was a touchy subject, as basically everyone in his life was aware. "But I mean, you could've had anyone, easy."

   Craig shook his head, almost laughing, humourlessly, again. "No, not anyone."

   "Girls were really into you!" Clyde insisted.

   "Well, that only goes so far with me, doesn't it."

   There was a beat of silence. "I didn't mean it like that," Clyde said, lowering his voice. "But, like, I don't know. Someone could've hooked you up with somebody from another school or, like, their cousin or something. Doesn't everybody have a gay cousin?"

   "You don't have a gay cousin," Craig pointed out.

   "No, but I have my sister. There exists a gay cousin in my family, is the point," Clyde said. Craig tensed, trying to stay in the moment, though mentions of Clyde's sister always made him feel a little put out. It was the same irrational resentment he'd harboured towards Tweek and Kyle for years; the gene had gone to the wrong South Park denizens, the wrong Donovan child. "I just don't get why you were single for so long," Clyde said. He was staring down at the asphalt as though it may hold the answer. Then he shrugged. "Sometimes I just think about it."

   Craig wondered what there was to think about. He had not exactly put effort into dating, and he had also never before been presented with the notion that he really _should_. Except by his mom. And even then, only recently -- only when they'd redecorated Ruby's room and given her a double bed, and his mom had confronted him in private and asked, was he _sure_  he didn't want to swap out his single bed out for something bigger? It was the literal same bed he'd had as a child, with the last remnants of glow-in-the-dark stars still peeling from the headboard, and several identical sets of white linens that would now fit only his bed, the only single in the house -- was he _sure_? And Craig had said that yes, he in fact was sure, in part because he loved both the idea and the reality of sharing that tiny mattress and being inescapably close with another person, maybe one particular person, though he had decided not to voice that preference, because it was weird and in fact a little sad. Craig had only said, "Well, I'm not dating," and his mom had said, "You could be," and Craig had not been able to think of a reply and pretended to be distracted by the TV.

   "People didn't exactly want me to date anyone else," Craig said to Clyde, after what felt like an extremely long silence. "I think they all had this idea that me and Tweek had to stay together because we were living in this crappy little mountain town and, you know, what else was there? What more could we achieve than each other, right?"

   "That sucks," Clyde said, though he didn't look surprised. Craig figured he had sensed this sentiment as well. "I never thought that."

   "You didn't think we were a cute couple?"

   "I've seen cuter couples," Clyde said, in such a matter-of-fact way that Craig snorted a laugh.

   "Thanks."

   "No problem."

   Craig glanced behind himself, making sure the side door was still closed, which it was. He pushed on it again to be certain before he spoke. "The whole thing was just-- it was like we were married from day one," he said. "And at first, that was okay. But then it became less okay?"

   Clyde sat up straighter. "Less okay how?"

   "I guess I sort of realised that I was going to spend my whole life with him if I didn't do something. I felt," Craig said, "like I was driving on this long stretch of highway towards something I didn't even want. And it was like, I could do that, or I could take a left turn into oncoming traffic and swerve into a ditch or something, and wreck my car and have no idea where I would end up. And I took the left turn." Craig put his head in his hands, shocked by the words that had just left him. He'd never thought them so coherently, but now they were spilling out, like they'd been bottled up for years. "God, I'm rambling. This makes no sense. You don't even know what I'm talking about."

   "Yes, I do." Clyde looked-- offended? No, not offended, Craig realised, because when Clyde was offended he usually looked like he was about to either burst into tears or start yelling, but now his eyes were wide, just a little. He was taken aback. "Are you kidding? Of course I do."

   "You do?"

   "Yeah." Clyde nodded. "Really. I feel that way about my whole life." At Craig's silence, he cleared his throat and elaborated, "Because, you know. I always tried to do what people expected me to. My dad mostly. I never did anything, like, adventurous, in my life. I stuck to the script. And even after I dropped out of college, I figured I could at least go back to the store, and try to take it over someday. My sister wont, because she's in dental school, so. It was up to me. And then, I left." Clyde went quiet for several seconds, staring down at the asphalt. "I think this band was my left turn."

   Craig listened, and when Clyde had finished speaking he began to toy with the puffball of his hat again.

   "Well, look where I ended up," he said. "I'm twenty-two years old and a virgin and my fucking ex is sleeping in my bed and he's addicted to meth. You're you. You left all your problems in South Park, you're a different person now." Craig gave in to the impulse to spend a moment biting at one of his fingernails, and glanced at Clyde, who technically represented another problem Craig had not managed to leave behind in South Park, creating constant fucking conflict, but only in Craig's mind. Which, now that he thought about it, seemed to be the way it always was. Still, he shrugged and said, "Congrats, Clyde, you took the better left turn. You win."

   Clyde stared. "Did you just say Tweek is addicted to meth?"

   "It's a long story."

   "Oh." For a moment, Clyde looked helplessly lost. Then he took a breath and said, "Well, maybe-- I don't know. Maybe all that means is that you were just never meant to leave things the way they were." Clyde's hand twitched where it rested in his lap, and for some insane moment Craig thought he might be about to reach out and touch Craig's own hand or his leg or something, but instead he just smiled in a kind of half-hearted way, and set his hand down again where it was. "So I guess that means we both win."

   "Yeah." Craig looked down at his socked feet. "I don't know why I'm complaining. It's not like I'm not glad I dumped Tweek."

   "I'm glad I didn't wind up running my dad's store." Clyde agreed. He put his chin in his hand and, again, he glanced at Craig for what felt like several seconds before he said, "I'm glad I'm here with you right now."

   In a moment, Craig's brain had short-circuited, his heart was in his mouth, and every cliche had erupted in his body at once. He blinked hard, and meant to say, _me too,_  but it came out as, "How much did you drink?"

   "Just a little." Clyde half-smiled again, and Craig was inclined to believe that this was true. Then Clyde got to his feet, sort of clumsily dusted himself off, and said, "I think I'm gonna head back."

   "Oh," Craig said, reluctantly. "Yeah. Sure."

   Clyde began to walk off, but then he stopped, and looked back, like he was going to say something, and Craig sat up and met his gaze, alert. But then Clyde faltered and only said, "Bye," awkwardly, and continued to walk away, with his hands in his pockets and his head down.

   Craig sat there in the rain and watched with his chin in his hand, wondering what had just happened. His heart was still pounding in his chest. What a time to spill his feelings, he thought. And what a time for _Clyde_  to spill his feelings -- about his _future_ , a topic they'd been steadfastly avoiding since they were ten years old. Craig reasoned that it was around this time it began to dawn on them that everything could go unexpectedly to shit and, in fact, statistically, probably would. In hindsight, Craig supposed it had something to do with his dream being dampened by his harsh critic of an AV teacher, and Clyde experiencing the reality of untimely death, and while the two were not really comparable, he figured they had both coped by finding comfort in total mediocrity for a while, which was depressing. Then they'd broken free of it, which was less depressing, and he tried to focus on that instead.

   Clyde was happy to be here with him. Craig puzzled over that, twisting the words around in his head, trying to find some way he could have misinterpreted them, or some reason for Clyde to have been joking, or just outright lying. It wasn't a thing people just _said_. Even Clyde, who _just said_ things all the time.

   Craig wondered why he hadn't returned the sentiment. He picked at his fingernails, concentrating on the task. Every so often he'd glance up, hoping the shadowed movement he'd seen in his periphery was Clyde returning, maybe to say something like, _aren't you happy to be here with me, too?_ so Craig could respond, _yes, in fact, I would be happy to be with you anywhere, even in this miserable wet parking lot in Indiana, how fucking tacky is that._  But, each time, it was just a tree rustling in the breeze, or a puddle becoming illuminated by a streetlight, and he returned to his thoughts, disappointed.

   Craig there sat for a long while, huddled in his jacket. He had put his hat on, but the wool nature of it really did nothing to protect him from the rain, which was still very light, and refreshing where it hit his face and his bare hands. Somewhere along the line, he'd grown kind of overheated. Maybe when he slammed the door and stormed out of the van. Or when Clyde showed some interest in hearing about Craig's sex life, which he did not usually do, mostly because Craig did not have one.

   He wondered what Clyde was doing now. He had forgotten to use the bathroom, Craig realised. It hardly mattered though, because it was getting so late that any respectable bar would be closing up soon, and Craig wanted to be asleep or at least pretending to sleep by the time that happened, to prevent himself from blurting out something he'd regret. Then he remembered what he was going back inside to, and decided to stay where he was for a little longer.

   Somewhere in the distance, thunder broke. Craig watched the sky for several seconds for a flash of lightning, but there wasn't one. He was glad, because he was sitting on wet metal steps, and was pretty sure that was a bad thing. Thunder crashed again, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, his spine tingling. This time it was so loud that he didn't hear his phone vibrate in his pocket -- he only felt it, and fished it out with one damp hand.

   It was a message from Clyde. It had an attachment. Craig sheltered his phone as best he could by hunching over it, and, thumb slipping on the screen, he unlocked it, opening the text. 

   It was a picture of a dick.

   Craig almost dropped his phone onto the wet asphalt, but rescued it, fumbling, at the last second.

   Craig did not breathe while he stared at the picture. It was not _a_  dick. It was Clyde's dick. Craig knew this viscerally before he could apply reason, but then his higher brain functioning kicked in, and with it the impulse to find some kind of evidence that he was wrong, that it was actually just someone else's dick that Clyde had somehow acquired a picture of, and sent along for the purposes of-- Craig didn't know, _laughing_  at? But there was nothing to criticize, at all. It was average sized, but in a good way, and accompanied by pubic hair that was the same colour of light-ish brown that matched the rest of the hair on Clyde's body. And Craig was pretty sure he'd recognise Clyde's dick anywhere, because he had seen a lot of it over the years -- he'd even measured it that one time, in fact. And here it was. Undoubtedly.

   Though, Craig had never seen it quite like this. It was hard -- so much so that it looked uncomfortable, and Craig actually felt a twinge of pity, and want, and a deep-seated need to see _more_. Because it was perfect. Unconsciously, he'd hunched over so far that his nose was practically touching the screen. He was captivated. He was hard in his jeans. And he was salivating.

   Craig covered his mouth with his palm and closed his eyes when he realised this, sinking back against the door of the bus. Probably it had been about thirty seconds, the whole ordeal, and he was already reduced to this -- whatever this was. A new level of sexual frustration? Yes, he thought: it was. Craig was sure he'd never felt quite like this before. Aroused, yes, obviously -- but never like his entire body had been magnetised, electrocuted, drawn to go directly to where Clyde was and get down on his knees right there and then and fuck the consequences.

   He wouldn't, though. He gave it a few seconds, breathing in deeply. He attempted to push past the fog of arousal, and made brief contact with the other feelings that were floating around his head: the amusement that he could just barely see the grey hem of Clyde's absurd t-shirt in the frame; the concern that he now knew what Clyde's dick looked like hard and probably would never be able to forget; the total weirdness of being so turned on while being outdoors in the rain. All the while, he watched his phone screen. He was trying not to make direct eye contact with the image of Clyde's dick, but waiting for some kind of admission that it had been an accident, or a joke, or anything other than an honest-to-god dick pic sent for actual sexual purposes -- or at _least_ , if nothing else, an explanation. _Any_  explanation that would wrench him out of this little high, and back down to reality, where Craig had no business seeing this picture, and the appropriate level of shame would be instilled in him, and he would not do anything he'd feel guilty about later.

   A minute passed. Craig was desperate. Nothing had come through, not even ellipses to indicate that Clyde might be typing -- nothing. Craig fidgeted, rocking back and forth. He could not remember if he had read receipts on, and after another minute passed in excruciating radio silence and he was beginning to seriously contemplate the pros and cons of masturbating right in the hospital parking lot, he decided that was a problem for future Craig, and stood up. His socks, immediately, were drenched. It really didn't matter. Worry, as a concept, was far behind him at this point. His brain felt alight with a single-minded determination now that he'd given up on any pretence that he wasn't about to jerk off to this picture, because he definitely was, and waiting an entire two minutes to do so had only made him more resolute.

   Craig opened the door entered the bus, glad that the layout meant he didn't have to pass by Tweek, and probably hadn't even been seen by him. Just inside the kitchenette, he clumsily peeled his socks off and threw them on the floor, where they landed with an unappealing wet sound. Then he made a beeline for the bathroom. He locked the door, and then sat down on the closed toilet seat. He checked his phone again. No text messages, again. He was starting to feel sort of dizzy, and apprehensive; those mixing undertones of nervousness and excitement that he always felt when he knew he'd be coming in a matter of minutes.

   Probably less than minutes, he thought as he unzipped his jeans, because he was so hard and so completely overwhelmed that he knew, instinctively, that it would not take much.

   Absently and without real purpose, Craig palmed his dick through his underwear. He could not believe what was happening, and half expected to wake up at any moment still on the bus, mid-climax with fucking Tweek next to him. He took a deep breath, trying to enjoy the moment, to empty his mind and look at the picture. The backdrop -- as if Craig gave a single _fuck_  about the backdrop at this point in time -- was a metallic dark green, and Craig could even see a hint of a wall-mounted toilet roll holder in one corner. Despite himself, he laughed under his breath, and for just a moment, he let himself believe that this was a thing they were actually sharing. That Clyde was this turned on in some questionable bar bathroom, and he wanted Craig to know, to see with his own eyes. Craig focused on this, because it helped to block out the less appealing thoughts that crept in, such as who this picture was really meant for, and what Clyde had really been thinking about to end up this way. Craig focused on the fact that it didn't actually matter, because this moment was all his. And just like that, he came abruptly and with a sigh, and it was over before it had even really begun.

   Craig sat there breathing hard until the endorphin rush faded. Then he came back down to Earth, where he was sitting on a toilet with a sticky, slimy, cold mess in his underwear. He looked up at the ceiling, at that one shitty dull flickering energy-saving bulb, and sighed again, in a very different way.

   Without thinking too hard about it, he saved the picture to his phone and then deleted it from the text conversation. He was ready to claim, if Clyde asked, that it hadn't come through. Then, reluctantly, he got up and stripped down to just his t-shirt. He could have sat and luxuriated for a little longer, or maybe forever, but he had to clean himself off before any of his bodily fluids dried on his skin and made him itch, which was a possibility that killed off whatever remnants of arousal he was still experiencing. Standing there naked from the waist down, Craig contemplated trying to wash his underwear out in the bathroom sink, but thought better of it, because what was he going to do with wet underwear? Hang them up to dry? Instead, he balled them up and left them on the toilet tank while he got back into his jeans, zipped them, and left the bathroom as quietly as he could.

   He went through to the sleeping area. Tweek was still there, predictably, in Craig's bed, so close to the wall that his face was almost touching it. Craig surmised that he was asleep, and crept past him, grabbing his backpack from beside the bunk and heading back to the bathroom again. Once there, he removed his jeans for a second time, fished out a new shirt and some sweatpants, and then stuffed the underwear down to the very bottom of the backpack, figuring he'd wash them or maybe even trash them at the first chance he got. He put his hat, shirt and jeans in the backpack as well, more neatly. Then he took a look at himself in the mirror.

   As expected, he looked like shit; with tired, bloodshot eyes and skin blotchy from the rain. That didn't matter. He ran his hands though his still-damp hair a few times, getting most of the water out. Then he realised he should probably wash his hands also, so he did, and splashed his face as well, just for the sake of it. His skin was still warmer than it had any right to be, and flushed in a way that wasn't entirely because of the weather. Now more than ever, his whole body ached for sleep.

   Minutes later, with his backpack on one shoulder, Craig stood in the doorway and surveyed the bathroom, feeling like it was a crime scene he'd just meticulously removed DNA evidence from. He supposed that, in a way, it was. And other than a few water droplets left in the sink, it looked untouched.

   Craig let out a breath. What a night he'd had, he thought as he closed the bathroom door behind himself for a final time. Now that he didn't have to worry about the embarrassment of Clyde or the wrath of Token, he was feeling much lighter. Pretty good, in fact. He crawled into bed, glad that Tweek had made more room for him this time. The sheets were pleasantly warm. So was Craig. He closed his eyes, and stretched his legs until his toes touched the far wall.

   Not expecting a response, he said, "Hey, Tweek? Has a guy ever sent you an unsolicited picture of his cock before?"

   " _What?_ " Tweek replied immediately, and tersely.

   For a moment, Craig was thrown. But he was not deterred. "You heard what I said," he said, without opening his eyes.

   "Ugh!" Tweek said, yanking the blankets tighter around himself. 

   Craig gave it a few seconds. The bunk creaked while Tweek tossed and turned, apparently struggling to get comfortable.

   "Well?" Craig prompted.

   "Just fuck off, Craig!" said Tweek. "I'm trying to sleep!"

   Craig laughed under his breath, and felt Tweek tense up even more beside him. Whatever, he thought. "I don't see why you have to be so bitter," he began, but then Tweek kicked him in the shin, grunting, and Craig fell quiet, swallowing back the rest of what he was going to say and deciding instead to roll over and pull the curtains closed, ready for sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [actual footage of me writing that last scene](http://southparkstudios.mtvnimages.com/images/shows/south-park/clip-thumbnails/season-4/0407/south-park-s04e07c06-what-a-grand-grand-penis-16x9.jpg?)  
> 2\. i still love writing this fic more than anything, but the last two chapters have been kind of an uphill battle. thank you all so, so much for your support. nice comments and feedback are appreciated so much at times like these and really do make a difference. <3  
> 3\. disclaimer: the author supports vegans and vegetarians, heteroflexible-identified people, people who like avocados and/or bottled water, hairless rats, crenny fans, creek fans, and the character tweek tweak himself. the author does NOT support or condone keeping animals in transport vehicles for long periods of time or keeping just one rat in a cage on its own. kenny has some kind of fictional, supernatural affinity with rats, but real people don't.  
> 4\. lastly, i went back and made a few minor edits to the previous chapter. however i'm not going to go back and delete that one author's note for the first chapter where i claimed i was going to update every 2 weeks. i think it's kind of funny in its own way now, considering this update alone took six freakin months.


	6. ascetics

    The morning after the strangest night of his life, Craig found himself in Starbucks Coffee at almost the crack of dawn. It was already humid, already warm, and by his estimation, they were in Michigan, though this Starbucks looked almost exactly the same as the one at the mall in South Park. Inside, he was met with the roasted-coffee smell, the slow-guitar music, people reading newspapers at tables, using laptops. Craig could see Tweek just ahead, inspecting something in the cake display. Never before had he seen Tweek in a Starbucks, or any other coffee house. It seemed vaguely sacrilegious.

   Tweek did not notice when Craig slipped into line behind him, loitering while Tweek ordered a fudge brownie and a latte. "With five espresso shots," he added, with authority, communicating he knew exactly what this meant, what he was signing up for. Then he patted down his jeans pocket and added, "Oh, shit! My wallet!"

   "I've got it," Craig said -- meaning the order, not the wallet, and he flashed the twenty dollars he currently had to his name, hoping it would cover the cost of what would probably be an outrageously expensive drink.

   "Oh, god!" Tweek complained, while the barista looked between them, unsure how to proceed. "You again?"

    "Yeah. We need to talk." Craig put the money on the counter, leaning past Tweek to do so. "I'll have a hot chocolate and a croissant, please."

   Tweek turned to him, affronted. Craig doubted he'd gotten around to brushing his hair last night. It was a mess. "I think we talked enough!"

   "Dude, knock it off," Craig said, as they were waved towards the island where the drinks were served. "Do you think I'm hanging out with you by choice? Because I'm not."

   That shut Tweek up until they collected their orders and found a table. They managed to snag one with armchairs, by the front window. Craig had never in his life achieved such a feat, of securing a cushioned seat at a Starbucks. But he had also never been to one before three in the afternoon. At barely seven am, the place was quiet but still atmospheric -- moreso than any place had the right to be at this hour, in Craig's opinion. He wondered what town they were in, or if it was perhaps a city. All he could see out of the window was the parking lot, a row of fat top-heavy trees, and a green road sign. The sun was streaming in, obscenely awake and blinding.

   Tweek took a deep drink from his mug, and then held it there under his nose, just inhaling it. "Oh, god, yes," he was muttering, apparently to himself. "Oh, fuck, I needed this."

   Craig raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He tried to tear off a piece of his croissant, but was put off by the pastry flaking everywhere, the butter-richness of it oily against his fingers. Tweek drank again, groaning. Over the speakers, an acoustic guitar was being plucked.

   Craig yawned behind his hand. He had not slept for long, but he had slept deeply, and well. So well that in his contented, bleary half-consciousness, he'd rolled over sometime after daybreak and buried his face in the soft, warm pillow that he found nestled between his body and the wall. That pillow turned out to be Tweek's shoulder, and he'd screamed his protest loud enough to wake everyone on the bus before he scrambled over Craig and out of the bunk altogether, cursing. Craig had held the curtain aside and watched, squinting, as Tweek made a beeline for the cab, slamming the door of it behind him. Craig could tell from the decisive way he moved that he'd been awake for a while.

   Ten minutes later they'd pulled up in the parking lot of this Starbucks, apparently in the middle of nowhere. Craig had spent the majority of that ten minutes laying on his back, listening to Clyde tossing and turning above him, and thinking about Tweek and the day he'd have ahead of him. Sooner or later, someone would have to break the news of his banishment. Craig did not imagine that Tweek would take it well -- he was not known for taking things well, in general. So when Tweek left the bus, Craig decided to follow him, grabbing a hoodie and his backpack on the way out, and hoping that he did not reek of hospital.

   When Tweek had drained his coffee, he cradled his mug in both hands and stared at Craig, bouncing his left knee. "So, you said you wanted to talk to me?" he said, with urgency.

   Craig looked down at his still-steaming hot chocolate, and his almost untouched croissant. Crumbs, flakes all over the plate. Then raised his gaze, slowly, to meet Tweek's.

   "Some things happened last night," he began carefully, "that you don't know about yet."

   "Oh, Jesus!" Tweek yelped. Wide-eyed, he dropped his mug down on the table. Had it not been empty, coffee would have spilled everywhere. "What did you do to me while I was asleep?!"

   The five or so other people in the Starbucks turned to stare. Including the barista, rag in her hand, mid-way through wiping down the counter.

   "What?" Craig said. He stayed still in his seat, frozen, but still Tweek shrank away, on the defensive. He really had a way of making Craig look fucking evil in public -- it was undeniable. But what did Craig expect? He'd known that since the Michael incident, way back in the fourth grade. Craig eyed the front door. He couldn't just get up and walk out, though he wanted to. He would not live up to the image Tweek had created for him in this god-forsaken Starbucks. "Nothing, obviously," he said, without inflection but loud enough that everyone would hear. "Are you serious?"

   "I don't know what to think!" Tweek was twitching -- badly. Craig reached for his hot chocolate, warily drinking some while he waited for Tweek to get over an eye spasm that was distracting him. "You went to bed mad at me. And you were talking about dicks!"

   Craig tensed, guilty as charged. Apparently this was just his life now; Clyde's dick on his mind for all eternity. But after the night he'd had, it was clearly inevitable, to be thinking about it, to want to talk about it and possibly even brag about it. So Tweek could just go ahead and sue him, Craig thought -- he was really only human.

   "That's the meth talking, and you know it." Craig had the decency to keep his voice low and calm when he said this, though Tweek did not deserve it. He flinched at the word 'meth'; the elephant in the Starbucks. "I know withdrawal is hard, but I think you should at least try to stay present in reality. I don't think you're trying to do that."

   Tweek made a strangled, choked-off sound. "I guess!" he said. He reached for his napkin and began to shred off little pieces, dropping them into his lap and watching them fall. "But I guess now you can just say that about whatever you want! Because that's how you see me!"

   Craig rolled his eyes. "I hate to break it to you," he said. "But there were worse consequences from last night than how I see you."

   "What?" Tweek dropped his napkin, his head snapping up. "What do you mean? What consequences?"

   Craig took another drink of his hot chocolate, and decided it would be best just to come out and say it. "Kyle fired you."

   "Kyle!" Tweek moaned. He was bouncing his leg again, annoyingly. "You _told_  him?! Why did you tell him!"

   "I didn't realise not telling him was an option," Craig said, plainly. At the look Tweek gave him, he paused, and then added, "I'm starting to realise it now."

   "Oh, God!" Every last inch of Tweek was vibrating now. "What did he say?"

   "He wants you to go back to Colorado, I guess." Eyes on his plate, Craig ate a piece of his croissant, thinking that he probably should have added butter or jam or something. He swallowed the dry pastry and added, "He was pretty worked up about the whole thing."

   "Of course he was, Craig! Everyone on the crew bus talks about him and his p-- ...policy," Tweek said, having some trouble with the last word as he was gripped by another spasm, in his neck this time.

   "Are you alright?" Craig asked.

   Tweek only stared at him, breathing hard. A high, whining noise escaped his throat. It seemed involuntary.

   "Well, maybe he'll change his mind if you talk to him," Craig said. He crossed one leg over the other, feeling exposed. The table between them was low to the ground, at an intrusive sort of calf-level, and Craig kept wondering if it was somehow obvious he'd had an orgasm while wearing these jeans last night. While they were not stained, they still felt tainted by the whole experience. He felt bad for wearing them to bed with Tweek, and he also felt bad for wearing them now.

   "You ruined everything!" Tweek said, in a way that indicated that he could not give less of a shit about Craig's jeans, now or at any other point in time. He put his head in his hands, and let out what sounded like a dry sob. "What am I going to say when I get home? Oh, hi mom and dad, sorry about the hospital bill and the fact that I'm a drug-addicted-- unmedicated, schizophrenic--"

   "Maybe I could try talking to him," Craig interjected, mostly to get Tweek to shut up. He was getting louder, and had attracted the attention of a few people with the word 'schizophrenic'. Craig could feel their stares. "Maybe he just, like, calmed down."

   "Calmed down!" Tweek repeated, clearly incredulous. "Yeah, right!"

   Craig thought this a was fair response: he, too, had met Kyle. He finished his hot chocolate, regretting that it was not caffeinated. The fact that Starbucks did not provide soda felt like a personal offense to him. Sometimes Craig was convinced that all coffee-centric establishments just thrived on making things difficult. He had often thought the same thing about Tweek.

   "There was a time in my life," Craig mused as he set his mug back down on the table, "when I thought this tour would be fun."

   "Yeah? Well, me too," Tweek said, and continued to sit there with his head in his hands. A different acoustic song was playing over the speakers now; a woman singing, sounding Irish. What did you have to do, Craig wondered, to get on coffee shop radio? Starbucks FM? Tweek would know, probably, and when he finally sat up and took in a deep breath Craig thought maybe he would ask, just to change the subject. Before he could say anything, Tweek leaned towards the little table that separated them and contemplated his mug for a moment before pushing it closer to Craig. "Get me another one of these," he said, and Craig would have, but glancing over his shoulder at the menu, he discovered that he lacked the funds.

  
-v-

  
   Craig managed to dispose of his incriminating underwear in a trash can at a rest stop in some place called Chelsea, which was surely about as forgettable as the myriad of other places in the United States called Chelsea, and possibly also as forgettable as Michigan itself felt on that early-summer afternoon. To Craig, the state looked like Colorado so far, but flatter, and rough around the edges. He'd formed this opinion while looking out of the window of the tour bus as they drove along the I-94, but being out in the open confirmed it. Even the air did not feel quite so clean as it did back home.

   But then, Craig thought, maybe a truck stop didn't offer much of a fair assessment. The place consisted of one good-sized, rustic-looking building with a green roof and a few winding concrete paths around what was essentially an open field. Craig noticed as he passed that it also boasted a few picnic tables, and a flagpole. And there were cars -- enough people milling around that it had made him very aware of what he had come to do as he rooted around in his backpack, feeling the bus make a sharp turn, then grind to a halt.

   The place was outfitted with a special parking bay with double-size spaces. Butters had situated their bus in one so that he could go to the bathroom and Craig could "stretch his legs" -- the excuse he'd used to leave the bus, wander out of view of the parking lot, and toss a balled-up pair of briefs into a trash can as he passed by, as if they were a candy wrapper he'd just found in his pocket, or a two-month-old receipt. He felt a thrill from it, immediately, as though he was committing a crime. It was definitely gross; possibly bio-hazardous, but surely not illegal. At least, Craig hoped that was the case.

   There was just no saving the underwear. In the heat of the moment, Craig hadn't noticed, but Clyde had managed to catch him in the sweet spot between having jerked off recently, and having not jerked off in so long that his balls forgot their natural purpose. He imagined what might happen if he sent Clyde a delayed reply to inform him of this, _You made me come so hard I had to get rid of my god damn underwear_ \-- this spin on it was so much hotter than the reality of the situation, and yet it made him realise that the whole thing really wasn't out of his system yet. It would be six days until their schedule slowed down in New York and he'd have half a chance of finding a way to be alone in some hotel bathroom. Six long days. He exhaled, unsteadily. Who could wait that long? Not Craig -- not with a picture of Clyde's dick on his phone, and not while he was so residually keyed-up that he was preoccupied with thinking about masturbation while walking in circles around an interstate rest stop in the middle of the afternoon, while wearing day-old clothes, needing a shower.

   Craig took a deep breath and tried not to think too hard about it. He kept walking in the opposite direction of the tour bus; he wasn't ready to turn back yet. While he did, he looked up at the sky. It was blue, but dull now; the sun was hiding behind a cloud. Then he checked his phone. Clyde had not texted him, and neither had anyone else. His bandmates were asleep again when he'd left; including Tweek, who'd passed out with the curtains open sometime in the late morning, lips parted and arms thrown out erratically, taking up the entire mattress. He could have the bunk, Craig decided -- he'd rather sleep on the floor between shows than have to deal with Tweek overtired, and he had a feeling they'd be hiding him on the bus for at least a few days at this rate. Who knew when Craig could get Kyle alone? When was Kyle  _ever_ alone? Craig sat down at one of the picnic tables, beside the flagpole, exhausted just thinking about the prospect of trying to somehow convince him that Tweek would be clean and responsible for the remainder of the tour. _Tweek_. Even his  _name_ was a strike against him. They were screwed, Craig thought. Just screwed.

   The prospect of being screwed made him check his phone again, compulsively. He didn't know what he expected to find, or what it would take to make him stop looking at it every few minutes, desperate for some confirmation that what had happened last night was real. That it wasn't some insane, sleep-deprived fever dream he'd had, fuelled by confusion and hope and the presence of another person in his bed. Craig opened up his photo album, thumbing through until he found what he wanted.

   Well - it was definitely still there, and definitely real. Craig rested his forehead in his hand and frowned, looking down at the picture Clyde had sent. It was different, in the light of day, and now that he wasn't thinking exclusively with his dick. He felt -- as he had, on some level, always known he would -- like he had no right to see this picture, had no right to keep it, and especially had no right to enjoy it. Above Craig's head, the flag was rattled by the wind. Sometimes being in the presence of the star-spangled banner made Craig feel like he was in church; like his sins were bared for all to see. Like he had some duty to be better than he was.

   Acting on impulse, he tapped the picture twice and deleted it from his phone, closing his eyes so that he did not have to see it disappear. For a moment, he felt empty, but then he just felt light. When he opened his eyes again, the sun shone brighter, and the birds sang louder, and even with cars and trucks rattling by on the interstate in the distance, the air felt cleaner. Craig exhaled, arched his back and stretched his legs under the table, knowing he had done the right thing.

   When he looked up, Token and Bebe were approaching, each with a styrofoam cup of coffee in hand. For all of five seconds, Craig was relieved that Clyde was not with them. Then he noticed the looks on their faces. Bebe was wearing a soft expression that was entirely unlike her, and when her eyes met Craig's she smiled not in her usual toothy way, but with restraint, the way people smiled at a funeral. Token, for his part, looked stern, concerned. Both of them were unshowered and barely dressed, as rumpled as Craig was.

   "I thought you were sleeping," Craig said as they sat down across from him. Self-consciously, he set his phone down on the bench beside him, though he had nothing to hide at this point. He supposed a fresh picture of Clyde's dick might come through at any time -- who could say? Bebe might even recognise it. The idea made him grimace.  

   "It's like, twelve thirty," Token said, checking his watch.

   "So?" said Craig.

   Token started to respond, but Bebe cut him off. "Craig," she said. She had both hands wrapped around the body of her styrofoam cup, her shoulders hunched. "Is there something you want to tell us?"

   Craig resisted the urge to knock his phone off the bench and onto the asphalt. "No," he said. "Why?"

   "Nothing?" Bebe pressed.

   "Is this an intervention?" Craig said. To his alarm, Bebe and Token glanced at one another.

   "Listen," said Token, leaning forward. "We all do things we regret, okay? We just want to make sure you're not messed up about it."

   "What have you ever done that you regret?" Craig had to ask. Token scoffed, but Craig interrupted-- "Also, what are you even talking about?"

   "Tweek?" Bebe said. "We heard him yelling at you this morning. And, uh," she looked back over her shoulder, in the vague direction of the tour bus, "he's still in your bed."

   Craig rolled his eyes. "Do I seem like the kind of person," he began, "who would accompany my ex to the hospital and then hook up with him on the night of his mental breakdown?"

   "Yeah," Token said. "Kind of."

   "You and Tweek," Bebe said, shrugging. "It's just a whole thing."

   "It sure is," Craig said, leaning back.

   "You're acting like we're being unreasonable," said Token. "But you never tell us anything. We don't know anything."

   "There's nothing to know about it. We broke up in middle school, and now he's here, and I'm dealing with that." Craig stood up and put his hands in his pockets, feeling perhaps more awkward than he ever had in the presence of his friends. "Thanks for your concern."

   "Craig, don't be mad," Bebe called after him, somewhat desperately, as he walked away. And though he didn't look back, he wasn't mad, exactly. Mostly perturbed by the notion that anyone on Earth would view him and Tweek as viable, as an option, a thing that could happen, when Craig had ruled that out years ago and expected everyone else to get the memo. Token and Bebe hadn't -- Clyde hadn't. Craig had a feeling that every train of thought would end up back at Clyde somehow. Approaching the bus, he glanced at the side door, then sighed and knocked on the passenger door of the cab instead. He could see Butters inside, at the wheel but without his seatbelt, to preoccupied with whatever he was doing to notice the knock. Craig tried the handle instead, and found it unlocked.

   "Hi," he said as he climbed inside, trying to be nonchalant about it. Butters seemed entirely unfazed; he had a pile of CDs in his lap, and was going through them one at a time, reading the back covers.

   "Hi, Craig," he said, brightly. "How was your walk?"

   "It was great," Craig said. Out of the window, he could see Token and Bebe returning, still with their coffee, talking urgently, gesturing a lot. Bebe noticed him up front, and waved. Hesitantly, Craig waved back.

   "That's great to hear!" said Butters. "I was just looking for something to listen to, but I guess we'll be leaving pretty soon."

   "Yeah," Craig said. He felt the bus shake slightly as the side door opened, then closed again. "Do you mind if I just stay here?"

   "No, not at all," Butters said, fastening his seatbelt. Then he gathered up all of the CDs and dumped them in Craig's lap instead. "You can pick the music."

   Craig couldn't bring himself to care about background music, at first, but after five minutes of incessant radio ads he changed his mind. He flipped through the CD collection, amused by how much of it consisted of female pop sensations from the mid-to-late 2000s. Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Lady Gaga -- of course. _How can you be bi-curious if this is what you listen to?_ , Craig thought, but didn't say. He was unsure if it would cross some kind of line -- if feelings would be hurt. He'd never given much of a shit about crossing lines before, in terms of etiquette, but now basic decency felt like a vital thing, like being nice to Butters was more than just being nice  _to Butters,_ and as they raced down the highway he recalled what he'd heard from school counsellors a thousand times growing up. _If you have nothing nice to say_ , chimed out in that sing-song way, always just so eye-roll worthy. It was advice that Craig had rarely taken. He shuffled CD cases and found Katy Perry, Miley Cyrus -- even Ariana Grande. _My sister liked this stuff when she was eight_ , was what came to mind next. He continue to hold back on voicing his thoughts, and eventually slipped _Fame Monster_  into the CD player without a word. It seemed like the most diplomatic option.

   They drove on; Craig staring silently out of the window, Butters singing along under his breath to every single track on the CD. Craig recognised songs; some from the radio, and some from Cartman's renditions onstange. What was with that, Craig wondered? What anomaly in the inner workings of Moop had led to all of them -- not just Cartman himself but Stan and Kyle and _Kenny_ learning all of these pop songs, enough to play a different one every single night of the tour? Maybe this was the key to success. _We're not a cover band_ , Bebe had told him -- snapped at him -- in Denver, when he'd tried to wriggle out of _Leftovers_ , but back then none of them had known about this. Craig reached for his phone, to do some research, to see if Moop had played covers on their first tour, if this was some insane tradition that had managed to work in their favour somehow--

   But his phone wasn't there.

   "Wait," Craig said aloud. He patted down his jeans pockets. Then he got up, clutching the headrest of his seat to support himself, and took the door through to the living quarters. He passed through in a hurry and knelt on the floor by his bunk. All the curtains were pulled, including his, but he didn't care about being quiet. He yanked his backpack out from under his bed and emptied it all over the floor. Hastily folded t-shirts and jeans fell out in a heap; a balled up pair of socks bounced, rolled away. He rooted through it all and then sat up straight, scanning the room, all the usual places. The surface of dining table. The stretch of carpet by his bunk. Retracting his steps. Where had he been?

   He checked his pockets again. "No fucking way," he said.

   "What are you doing?" asked Clyde from above. Craig looked up at him. His curtains were pulled back and he was peering out, hair mussed, squinting in the daylight. He was really the last person Craig wanted to confront right now, all things considered -- namely, the fact that he'd just finished dealing with the god damn Jackson Pollock underwear situation that Clyde had been responsible for. He averted his eyes towards the carpet for a long moment, stunned, shocked that he was even thinking about that while Clyde was in the vicinity.

   "I lost my phone," Craig said, dumbly. Then he pushed himself to lay flat on his belly, searching under the bed, though he already knew he wouldn't find anything.

   "You did?" Clyde asked. He sounded appropriately concerned, and Craig was glad for at least that. Even with his head under the bunk he could feel that he was still being watched.

   "Yeah," he said, sitting up. He ran a hand through his hair, because there was probably dust in it, and took a breath, because he didn't know what else to do. Then he got up and went back to the cab.

   "Turn around," Craig commanded Butters, before he'd even stepped inside.

   "Wha-" Butters tried to look over his shoulder, and then seemed to remember that he was driving. "What?"

   "Turn around!" Craig repeated, and sat down heavily in his seat again. "I left my phone," he said. "On the picnic table, I left it sitting there."

   "I can't-- we're on the freeway!" Butters said. "I'd have to get off at the next exit and then go all the way around, and I don't know where the heck we are -- it's _Michigan,_  for cryin' out loud -- and-- I'm sorry, Craig, but we're already so late..."

   "Ugh." Craig slumped, and turned his head. Out of the window, fields stretched on. "I was almost at level 400 of _Pet Rescue Saga_."

   "We'll get it back!" Butters said, reaching into his jeans pocket. "Here -- take my phone and call Wendy. She can contact the place and sort it all out, okay?"

    "Are you kidding? Someone probably already stole it," Craig said. He did not think much of the integrity of people who were frequenting highway rest stops at 2pm on a  Thursday. They were the type who'd see an iPhone sitting unattended and think it the perfect gift for their seven-year-old. But he took Butters' phone from him anyway, sighing. "What's your password?"

   "It's, uh, 0911."

   "Okay." Craig typed it in, and without looking up, added, "You should change it." 

   "Well," Butters said, and sniffed. "That's my birthday."

   "Jesus," Craig said. He scrolled through Butters' contacts, found Wendy's name with a butterfly emoji next to it, and hit 'call' before he could think too hard about all the reasons why he did not really want to speak to her.

   "I heard you're harbouring a fugitive," was how Wendy greeted him, cheerfully.

   "It's Craig," said Craig.

   "Oh. Hi, Craig," she said, less cheerfully. "Is Butters okay?"

   "Yeah, he's just driving," Craig said, and then he closed his eyes and relayed the whole story to her, all the while resenting the idea that he had to ask Wendy Testaburger for help. That had to be why she took this job in the first place, Craig thought, in the lull after he'd finished the story and Wendy was processing, coming up with a plan. Whenever something went wrong on tour, she had to fix it. She relished it, he was sure; dealing with other people's mistakes, being the most competent. That was Wendy to a tee.

   "I'll take care of it," Wendy said, and then she hung up on him. Craig handed Butters' phone back, and decided he did not like dramatically ended calls so much anymore.

  
-v-

  
    Before the show in Detroit, Wendy presented Craig with a prepaid Nokia akin to one he'd had as a child, and by the time they reached Columbus he had realised that it did not possess a single function that could not be executed by his laptop, so all it was really doing for him was making him look like a drug dealer when he whipped it out in public. He was not very enthusiastic about this, given the circumstances. He'd received the news that the rest stop staff were going to mail his phone to Kenny's house in Florida, rather than Kyle's loft, because they'd only be in New York for three days and arriving in less than a week, and Craig had listened to Wendy explain this to him while they were tucked backstage at the Nationwide Arena, feeling like this was a solution designed specifically to broadcast how stupid and careless he had been to as many people as possible. His friends had made fun of him relentlessly after Butters had spilled the story of almost leaving him behind, and he was expecting it also from Moop, who surely knew by now, and would certainly figure it out when they saw him with a phone that could not access social media and had a keyboard with only ten buttons. "At least you didn't lose your progress in _Pet Rescue Saga_ ," Wendy had said, before she turned and sauntered off. Craig had only watched her go, seething.

    This was only a minor distraction, though, from the current most pressing issue in Craig's life. After the incident at Starbucks, he had surrendered his bed entirely to Tweek, who had never thanked him, and also never seemed to leave it, citing constant nausea and headaches and the need to nap for hours at a time thanks to the prescription he'd acquired for his attacks of paranoia. Craig been invited to join Bebe in her bed, and while he appreciated this, he also hated it. He spent a lot of time lying awake in the middle of the night, staring at the pulled curtains of his own bunk, trying to recall everything he had once known about Tweek, struggling to put the pieces together.

   Had Tweek had any prior issues with substance abuse that Craig knew about? Not since the cough syrup incident in the fourth grade, in which almost literally everyone else had  participated. Including, Craig noted with a surge of indignance, Kyle Broflovski himself. He filed this away for later, willing to bring it up if an argument called for it.

   Had Tweek ever lied to him before? Not that Craig knew about. He had, however, been briefly in a fake relationship. But since the whole thing was Craig's idea and involved some coercion, it was not easy to hold this against him.

   Did Tweek have an addictive personality? Yes, obviously -- but he was addicted to _coffee_ , which was a far cry from methamphetamine.

   And how had meth even come into the picture? If not for the testing, Craig would have assumed the doctors had just mistaken Tweek's general demeanour for a serious drug problem. It was an easy conclusion to jump to, really. Craig had never met anyone so tremulous and tense, so haunted by creatures that were visible only to him. Back in school, to Craig's immense annoyance, Stan Marsh and his friends had gone along with Tweek's visions for a while, insisting that the aliens, gnomes, crab-people and all manner of other malicious threats were actually real. Craig was never sure whether they were being cruel on purpose or if they were just incredibly stupid, but regardless, by middle school, they had stopped intervening. This was probably to protect their places at the new-found popular table, which was occupied also by Token and Clyde and a handful of cheerleaders. Craig was frequently invited to join them, but he instead took lunch with Tweek and a table of Asian girls who seemed constantly mystified by them and the way that they interacted on a daily basis. After their break-up, Craig did sit at the popular table, and did not see Tweek around at lunch anymore. He heard nasty rumours that Tweek was spending an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, locked in a stall, covertly checking out guys through the crack in the door. Craig had laughed at this, but privately doubted it. He assumed that was just where Tweek ate.

   Remembering this, Craig rolled over in bed and decided that it was actually kind of a miracle that Tweek had not dropped out of school and become a meth addict sooner. It wasn't like he'd ever had a lot to lose.

   But he did now, Craig thought. And if addiction was what Tweek had run away from, Craig sure as hell was not going to participate in making him go back to it.

   With this in mind, Craig made it his personal mission to get Kyle alone, which was almost as difficult as he had anticipated. He was pretty sure Kyle wouldn't just allow himself to be taken aside. He had seemed to blame Craig for the meth situation almost as much as he blamed Tweek, and appeared to be deliberately avoiding him, because Craig barely caught any glimpses of Kyle at all during the next couple of days, and not for any lack of trying. He spent a lot of time observing: hanging around corridors, lingering by Moop's tour bus while his band unpacked their things after arriving at a venue in the afternoon and then re-packed them later under the cover of darkness; wandering backstage, having to be redirected by technicians when he inevitably got lost; visiting the bathroom more than he needed to. Kyle seemed to be in his dressing room or on the bus at all times, and when he wasn't, he was always with Stan or Butters or roadies -- never with Kenny or Cartman, and Craig felt that this was probably his fault. The only time he saw Moop all in one place was when they were onstage, and when Cartman ended each show with another insufferable Lady Gaga cover, Craig stood in the crowd and watched Kyle go pink in the face, refusing to look up from his frets while the fans went wild.

   Things did not improve much in New York. They entered the city early in the afternoon, and Bebe, Token, and Clyde were all miraculously awake, though so fatally hungover that Craig felt like the sole survivor from the afterparty the night before, during which he had texted his sister for an hour before leaving early and going to bed at approximately midnight. Through the tinted windows of the kitchenette, he could see that they were well and truly through the tunnel now, passing by pedestrians, construction everywhere at eye-level -- some streetlights piled so high with road signs it was impossible to read them all. They passed by sidewalks with pale little trees in cages; a railway bridge cutting between the buildings that had sprung up around it; so many skyscrapers with cranes emerging.

   Craig had never expected New York to be beautiful. In his mind's eye it had always been run-down and overcrowded, grimy and dirty and grafitti'd, a cold and unfriendly city where the glamour of it all had peaked in the '20s and decayed over time. He had expected lifeless concrete, but everywhere there were trees, flags, yellow cabs, _people_  -- people shopping, standing, sitting, working, talking, everywhere. He had expected every building to look the same, but every last one was different. He saw crumbling old churches tucked in beside sleek hospitals, department stores with stone facades and pillars, apartment buildings of red brick and white brick and grey brick. The word "Chelsea" began to appear on signs; then "The Village"; then "SoHo". Then Craig realised he was sitting there in briefs and a t-shirt, and so he got up and got dressed, then washed his face and brushed his teeth, ate a slightly overripe banana, and started packing away his laptop and his camera, and everything else he'd need to take with him to the hotel.

  They pulled to a stop on a narrow street. There were no glowing signs signalling _Ritz-Carlton_  or _Marriott_ \-- only an unassuming  _Sur La Table_  across the way. To Craig's surprise, Kyle was outside, waiting for them and wearing an embarrassing combination of skinny jeans and an argyle sweater. Less surprisingly, Stan was with him, texting, and also wearing a sweater, and no hat. His hair looked as flat and stupid as ever. Thinking this, Craig felt himself smile as he stood there in the doorway of the bus. Then he stopped smiling, and peered up at the building they were parked in front of. It was conspicuous, the windows seemingly tinted, and it had an awning, which had to be a good sign.

   "Where are we?" he asked Kyle.

   "Oh." Kyle faltered, and looked back over his shoulder, as if he might be unsure. "Well, this is my house."

   "This is your _house_?" Bebe asked, from behind Craig. He stepped down onto the sidewalk, and she followed, holding onto his shoulder as she navigated the steps, squinting even though the whole street was cast in a shadow from the tall buildings on either side. She was wearing her backpack over her clothes from last night, along with an ill-fitting, too-big hoodie that Craig didn't recognise. Her hands were pulled up into the sleeves, though it wasn't cold.

   "I only live on the top two floors," Kyle said as they came to stand beside him. A delivery truck drove by, horn blaring as it struggled to squeeze past the tour bus. Kyle watched it pass, not caring, and then looked to Craig again and added, "This is where you guys are staying."

   "With you?" Craig couldn't help asking. It got a laugh out of Stan, for some reason, though he did not look up from his phone.

   "Uh, yes," said Kyle. He folded his arms, shifting his weight to one side, the familiar posture of all of the disgruntled teachers who had ever given Craig a detention. "Obviously with me. I'm not just _giving_  you my place. This isn't AirBNB or whatever."

   "I thought we were going to a hotel," Bebe said, as Token appeared in the doorway of the bus, shielding his eyes with his hand.

   "Well," Kyle replied, scowling now. "I just don't see the point in paying for a hotel when my apartment has a guest bedroom that has literally never been used."

   "What's happening?" Token asked, blearily, joining them on the sidewalk.

   "We're re-enacting the fucking nativity," Craig told him.

   "What does that mean?" Kyle demanded to know.

   "When Jesus was born in the barn because they had nowhere else to stay," Stan said, to which Kyle replied, "Ugh!"

   "So, to reiterate," Token said, turning to Bebe, who had been distracted eyeing the building across the street, not the _Sur La Table_  part of it but the stories above, with their ornate brickwork, the spotless white windowpanes. " _What_  is gong on?"

   "Kyle's letting us stay in his guest bedroom," she said, her exhaustion permeating every syllable, "in his awesome New York apartment, Craig, so knock it off."

   "Are we all sharing a room?" Craig mused as they walked up the front steps. He cast a glance back at the bus, thinking of Clyde, wondering if they should have perhaps left a note for him or something.

   "I also have a couch," Kyle said, holding the door open. "Come on."

  
-v-

  
   Kyle's apartment was fucking obnoxious, which was really the only way of putting it. He granted them entry through the front door not with a flourish, but an aura of smugness that defied all body language, walking inside first and then stopping after a few steps, as though expecting them to just stand in the doorway and marvel at his living room. Craig sensed this, and was determined to do anything but. He examined his fingernails while everyone filed in; Bebe came to a stop beside him, with Token just behind, and Stan at the back of the group.

   Craig didn't really need to look -- he remembered the magazine spread, and from the brief glimpse he'd gotten so far, he had surmised that very little had changed since those pictures were taken two years ago. It was as grand and as elegant, with the ceiling stretching up two stories and the far wall panelled completely with windows that offered a breathtaking view of the city below. It was also as pristine and untouched. He recalled that the angular white leather sofa had been spotless, the great expanse of the first floor decorated with a handful of carefully selected vases and lamps, all monochrome in colour.

   "I don't have a lot of guests," said Kyle, breaking the silence as he turned around to face the group, as though he were a tour guide, necessary to explain their surroundings. "What do you even say when someone comes over? 'Welcome'?"

   "You say, 'please come in'," Token supplied.

   "You're already in," said Kyle, which was true, though the front door was still open behind them.

   "You could offer us a drink," Craig said. "Or to take our bags."  

   "Do you have any Aspirin?" asked Bebe.

   "Yeah," Kyle said, "okay."

   With Kyle distracted, Craig felt it was now safe to look around. As he had expected, it was almost exactly the same as he'd expected. The hardwood floor was gleaming in the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows; the kitchentops practically sparkled. There was one round, fat silver vase on the entryway table; three little cut-glass ones in a row on top of the slim electric fireplace. The only item that had been added to the mix, Craig noticed, was a guitar stand tucked into one corner, housing an orange bass the exact colour of Sunny Delight and so strikingly hideous that Craig almost laughed aloud at the sight of it.

   He separated from the group and walked over, crouching to examine it as Kyle led everyone else towards the kitchen, describing the locations of various items and tools. Craig did not recognise this guitar from the tour; he would've remembered it if Kyle had gotten up on stage with this thing, or left it lying around backstage. Kyle seemed like the type to lose his goddamn mind if his instrument was moved without permission, so Craig settled for brushing his thumb over the four strings, quietly enough not to draw attention. It was in tune; recently played.

   "You like it?" Stan asked, from behind him. Craig twitched, startled. He had not heard Stan's footsteps. "It was a gift, after our first single dropped. From me."

   "Of course it was," Craig said, getting up. Stan was standing there with his arms folded, giving the guitar a fonder look than Craig thought it deserved.

   "Do you play?" he asked, glancing over.

   "Not really," Craig was loath to admit.

   "You know our newest single?" asked Stan. Then he proceeded to pick up the guitar and play it, as if Craig gave enough of a shit about the song to remember what the bassline sounded like. He sat down on the edge of the couch and resigned himself to it, not bothering to look impressed. He wasn't. Apparently Stan could play bass. So what? As a child, Craig had learned several string instruments, including the charango, the mandolin and the ukulele, as well as the guitar. He had also enjoyed the tambourine and, of course, drums of all kinds. He doubted Kyle had any of these laying around in his apartment for him to show off with, however.

   "I used to play guitar," Craig offered when Stan was placing the bass back on the stand, though as soon as it was out of his mouth he realised that it sounded kind of pathetic. As if he was trying to redeem himself for not being able to play this orange fucking monstrosity for Stan's entertainment. Still, he continued, "I actually taught Clyde how to play when we were kids."

   "Oh," said Stan, turning towards the kitchen, where Kyle was doing something to his coffee maker, in discussion Token while Bebe sat on the counter, texting. "Where is he?" he asked after a pause. "I honestly just noticed he wasn't here."

   "He's dealing with some issues," said Craig.

   "Some issues?"

   "Some problems."

   Stan snorted. "Okay, dude."

   "He has a delicate digestive system that doesn't play nicely with getting fucking wasted and passing out for twelve hours," Craig said. "If you must know."

   "Oh, yeah," Stan said, nodding. "The colostomy thing."

   "How do you know about that?"

   "Why would I not know about it? We were on the football team together for half our lives. The showers were communal." Stan was giving him an odd look; one Craig could not place. "Sometimes I think you forget we all, like, grew up together. We knew each other when we were in diapers."

    _Just because you were still pissing on the floor in kindergarten doesn't mean we were in diapers_ , Craig thought about saying, but he was distracted, again, by the Sunny Delight guitar, which was just unavoidable, the colour lingering in his periphery no matter where he tried to avert his eyes to. So instead, he remarked, "I really don't think I can stand to look at this thing anymore."

   "What do you mean?" asked Stan.

   "Nothing," Craig said. He glanced to Stan and noticed, again, the sweater he was wearing. It was warm out, humid; Craig was wearing a t-shirt. Perhaps Stan's years in California had desensitised him to the heat. "Where are you staying?" Craig asked him, in an attempt to change the subject.

   "Uh. Here," Stan said. As if he had noticed Craig staring at it, he pushed the sleeves of his sweater, up to his elbows, but slowly, taking more time than was at all necessarily. Then he shrugged. "I pretty much live here, so."

   "Oh," Craig said. Their conversation had attracted the attention of Kyle, Token, and Bebe, who were filtering back into the living room, having toured the kitchen and all it had to offer. "So we're four of us in your room?" Craig asked, as Token sat down heavily on the couch beside him, and the cushion dipped under his weight. 

   Kyle had stopped halfway between the kitchenette and the sofa, abruptly. He was holding a mug of coffee in both hands, and when Stan looked to him, he cleared his throat and answered the question instead.

   "No," he said. "No, I guess that would be pretty stupid."

   "Maybe I should just go to a hotel," Stan said. Suddenly he looked so awkward standing there, and the energy in the room shifted entirely, a hesitation that Craig could not comprehend. Stan's eyes locked with Kyle's as though he had just said something other than _maybe I should just go to a hotel_ , Kyle's lips pressed together like he wanted to respond but wouldn't, or couldn't.

   "Well, not if you _live_  here," Bebe said, missing this, the whole atmosphere of it. She was hanging back, keeping a good distance from the pristine white couch. "Wait," she said, and narrowed her eyes. "Didn't you say it's a guest bedroom?"

   "What? No, I didn't--" Kyle said, then pulled himself together, tilting his chin up. "I didn't say that."

   "You said it's never been used," Token said. He was slumped all the way down, his head resting on the back of the couch, his forearm draped over his eyes like the full-sized windows offended him, though the sky was overcast. "Actually, you said the whole reason you wanted us to stay here was because it's never been used."

   Kyle had no response to this. Neither did Stan, who just stood there with his arms limp by his sides, an entirely different person from the man who had just been in his element, playing some instrument that he apparently loved, in his own home, among friends, though not anymore. Stan's eyes flicked to each of them in turn; to Token first, then Bebe, then Kyle, then Craig, where he stopped, and settled, as if he was expecting something. Craig didn't know what the hell he wanted to hear. He could not make eye contact. Doing so would feel like getting  _i_ _nvolved_ , in Stan Marsh's feelings or his life or whatever, so instead he stared vaguely out of the window, fixating on a billboard in the distance advertising some kind of shoe that Craig had probably sold to someone at some point in his life, though now didn't seem like the time to point it out.

   Bebe was the one to break the silence.

   "Wow!" she said, brightening. "Well, Token, Craig -- you both owe me ten dollars."

   "Really?" Token said, shifting his arm and glancing at her without moving his head. "That was years ago."

   "What?" said Kyle, apparently finding his voice. He was still holding his coffee mug, though far too tightly, white-knuckled, and the look on his face indicated that he might throw it at someone, if the situation called for it.

   "This is bullshit," Craig said, shifting in his seat to face Bebe, who was smirking. Craig found it obscene how revitalised she had become, all because she had been the one who was right. "I'm not giving you ten dollars. I don't believe this for a second."

   "What?!" Kyle said again, so sharply that Craig felt, for a moment, that he possibly should not have said that out loud.

   "Statistically, this is impossible," he said, directing this comment at Bebe so that he wouldn't have to see the look on Kyle's face. "So."

   The silence rung out. It was strange, but there was no real ambient sound in the apartment. The refrigerator did not hum, the floors did not creak, and the windows were closed.

   "Well," Kyle said, with such a sarcastic edge to his voice that Craig couldn't help glancing at him, and he was disturbed to find Kyle looking right back, not calm, but restrained. "I think this is the first time someone has actually been surprised. But I never expected it would be you."

   "I'm not _surprised_ ," Craig said. "I'm calling bullshit. I just called it, just now."

   Stan snorted. "Why?" he said, and then had the audacity to glance towards Kyle then, as if they were sharing some kind of inside joke at his expense.

    _Because you're straight_ , Craig almost said, but he caught himself just in time, realising how venomous it would sound if he was wrong. How venomous it would  _all_ sound if he was wrong. He was suddenly aware that everyone was staring at him; that this had become about him, somehow, and he swallowed and said nothing.

   "Why didn't you tell us before?" Token eventually asked. "Did you think we were homophobic or something?"

   "We don't tell people," Kyle interjected, before Stan had a chance to reply. "We want Moop to be about the music. Not about our interpersonal relationships."

   "Some people ended up finding out about it, though," Stan said, shrugging. "Kenny and Butters, for example, and our manager. And then, Cartman."

   "Maybe because you suck at lying," Craig suggested. Kyle glared at him.

   "So," Bebe said, clapping her hands together. "Can we see your room, Kyle?"

   "Why?"

   "I've never seen a rock star's bedroom before," she said, sweetly. "And you didn't finish the tour."

   Kyle looked like he doubted this excuse, but still he led them all up the precarious and narrow slate steps, to the overhanging balcony portion of the loft which housed, apparently, his bedroom, right in the open but hidden from view from the floor below. He had a king-sized bed, low to the ground. Along one wall there was a dresser and a desk, both sleek matte-black, and another guitar stand, this one housing a standard six-string acoustic. It took Craig a moment to realise that the room was not so immaculate as the downstairs. Someone had left a notebook and pen laying out on the bed, which was made, but sloppily, as if the duvet had simply been yanked back up and forgotten about. A few novels were stacked in a pile on one of the side tables, and on the desk, Craig noticed a set of keys with a Broncos keychain, and a framed picture of Shelly Marsh with some guy, and a baby between them: Stan's niece or nephew.

   "Ugh," said Craig. He removed his wallet from his back pocket and handed over a ten dollar bill.

   "You should all be ashamed," said Kyle, seeing this.

   "We just didn't believe someone with an ass like yours could be single for so long," Bebe explained as she pocketed Craig's ten dollars. "Well. That was what I thought, anyway."

   Kyle crossed his arms, clearly not won over by this. "So who was your money on?" he asked Token.

   "Eric," Token admitted. When he noticed Kyle's disgust, he shrugged. "There's always been some weird stuff going on there. But I guess I read it wrong."

   "You can sleep in the fucking gutter," said Kyle.

   "And yours?" Stan asked, looking to Craig, who sighed.

   "I said I thought you'd meet someone in New York."

   "That was when we made the bet," Token explained. "You just moved here and bought this huge place just for yourself. We thought it was--" he said, and then hesitated, putting his hands in his jeans pockets. "You know."

   "Sad," Bebe said, when the look on Kyle's face implied that he did not know. "We thought it was a little sad."

   "Frankly, I thought someone would date you just for the house," Craig said. "Like a gold digger."

   Kyle's expression hardened. "That's not funny," he snapped, and Craig raised his eyebrows. He hadn't been joking.

   "Kyle," Stan said.

   "Whatever." Kyle had already turned around, and was making his way down the stairs again. "I'll go set up the beds."

   'The beds' turned out to be a haphazard arrangement of blankets upon blankets which Kyle lifted from a closet and dumped on the carpet of the guest bedroom, which was so compact that it was perhaps once a closet itself, with one single bed and a side table, and floor space enough to sleep two, or maybe three at a push. Craig watched him arrange these blankets from the living room, where he stood lingering by the back of the sofa, answering a text that Clyde had sent.

    _Thanks for waiting for me!_ , it said.

    _I'll fill you in on what you missed,_ Craig replied -- arduously. _Stan was just telling me what great friends you guys are._

    _Yeah?_

    _Not good enough friends that he told you he's gay I bet._

    _Lol_ , was Clyde's cryptic reply.

   Craig narrowed his eyes at the grainy, pixellated phone screen, trying to decipher what it meant. When no other messages came through, he texted back, _I'm finding it hard to believe._

    _Why, because he's into football?_ Clyde said, followed once again by,  _Lol._

    _More like because he's into Kyle._

    _??,_  Clyde sent back, and that was all. Craig shoved his phone back into his pocket, annoyed, because he felt this revelation deserved more than vague bullshit text messages. Maybe Clyde was just too hungover to think anything beyond '??' and 'Lol' at this moment in time. Bebe was still sort of shambling around, ostensibly helping Kyle arrange the pillows in the spare bedroom; Token had gone horizontal on the couch.

   Through the afternoon, Token and Bebe napped in the spare bedroom with the door closed and the curtains drawn. Stan and Kyle went out for lunch, and only thought to invite Craig when they were literally halfway out of the door, Stan looking over his shoulder, Kyle already gone. "Did you want to come?" Stan asked Craig, who was sitting on the couch, staring at some talk show that was playing on Kyle's enormous television. "We're going to the best vegan burger place in Manhattan."

   "That's high praise," Craig said, without turning around, "but I think I'll just hang out here."

   As soon as the door closed behind them, Craig regretted this decision. He was starving, actually, and he did not like the thought of taking chances with Stan Marsh's fridge. Probably the first thing they'd done after their bus had crossed the border of New York state was stop off at the closest Whole Foods. Stan's parents still shopped at the one in town, Craig knew. Sometimes his own parents did, too, though they couldn't afford it.

   Craig flopped fully back onto the sofa, and switched off the TV. Looking at this place Kyle lived in, this cavernous and immaculate place, he imagined that the Marshes and the Broflovskis back in South Park would never again want for anything -- except, perhaps, to see their children more often. Craig smirked to himself, thinking that this was the kind of thing his own father would say, in his moments of tenderness that emerged perhaps once a decade. And then, of course, his mother would find some reason to disagree with him, and Ruby would sulk in the background, rolling her eyes and complaining about the arguing, but only ever making it worse.

   Craig felt something -- some kind of emotion, though he could not define it. Laying in Kyle's empty and silent apartment, he would not say that he missed his family, but he noticed their absence now more than ever. Just like he sometimes noticed the absence of his routine on Wednesday mornings, when he used to open the store. Or his room back home, where he'd wake up every day to those phosphorescent stars on his ceiling, the scratching of his guinea pig in her enclosure, the sound of talking downstairs, and even sometimes to Clyde in his bed.

   Time passed. Craig sat for a while, thinking, then got up and decided to invesitage the fridge. It was huge inside, with an ice dispenser and a water filter too, which he balked at. The crisper was full to bursting with green bullshit, and there were mason jars filled with sauces that looked homemade -- nothing that he wanted to eat. He spread some yellow, fat-free "butter alternative" onto a slice of bread and ate that instead, then carefully washed and returned the knife and the plate he'd used, feeling awkward. Kyle had at no point actually said 'make yourself at home', or anything like it, but Craig planned to anyway, and so after drying his hands he glanced back at the front door, making sure he was definitely alone before he started to explore the rooms that Kyle had neglected to include in the tour.

   As it turned out, there wasn't much. Off the kitchen was a narrow hallway, though the fact that one wall was panelled with full-length windows made it feel much more spacious than it really was. Outside, Craig could see a meagre rooftop space, with a few water-damaged benches, and some empty planters. The hallway led to a few closets and one large bathroom, which looked untouched, though so did everything else in the apartment. Upstairs, the mysterious door off Kyle's bedroom led to a another bathroom, which was smaller but clearly used more often, the countertops cluttered with several creams and lotions in white bottles, an unplugged electric razor, and an obscene amount of hair styling products piled up on the windowsill. Craig scoffed aloud at this, though no one was around to hear him.

   He heard the front door open downstairs, and tensed. Unless Stan and Kyle had finished their lunch in record time, it would be Clyde -- and when Craig heard a clatter that sounded suspiciously like the umbrella stand being knocked over, he decided that it was definitely Clyde. He waited a moment, hoping the noise would've woken Token and Bebe. When he heard no movement, he reluctantly left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

   He stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, bracing himself while he watched Clyde doubled over, picking up several black umbrellas which had skidded across the hardwood floor. He was very aware of the fact that they had not been alone together since the night of the impromptu hospital visit, and that they had not talked about anything in particular since then. What was he supposed to say now? "What's up, Clyde, your dick is perfect and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life pretending I haven't seen it"? He sighed, irritated with himself, that he was suddenly worried about saying the wrong thing to Clyde, of all people.

   "Hey," he said, somewhat too loudly -- the word echoed around the space and Clyde looked up at him with arms full of umbrellas.

   "Where is everyone?" he asked.

   "Stan and Kyle are out to lunch," Craig said, still lingering where he was. "Bebe and Token are sleeping. How are you?" he added, and then felt incredibly stupid for having done so. He couldn't recall ever having asked this of Clyde before. Usually it was obvious.

   "Well, I fucking destroyed my mattress," Clyde said, and turned away to dump the umbrellas back in the stand. "So there's that."

   Craig blinked. Of all possible responses, he had not expected this one. "Do you need help, like, cleaning it?" he found himself saying.

   "No. I think I can replace it before anyone notices. Only, I'll have to ask Butters for the money." He turned back around, and crossed his arms over himself, looking away. "I hope he doesn't tell Cartman. God-- fuck, why did I say that?" he said, his brow creasing. "I jinxed it. He's definitely going to tell Cartman."

   "I'll make sure he doesn't," said Craig as he came downstairs, not concerned about this. Butters may have technically been his friend, but that did not mean that Craig was above threatening him with violence if the situation called for it. "Do you want to watch TV, or something?"

   "I guess," said Clyde. "I'm gonna shower first, though."

   "Okay," Craig said. He pointed out where the guest bathroom was, and when Clyde was gone, he sat down on the couch again and switched on the television. He flipped through the channels until he found a rerun of Jerry Springer, then settled with his head on the armrest and his legs curled up, tuning out the frantic discourse about someone's paternity test and listening instead to the muffled sound of pulsing water from the shower, and the rain that had begun to come down outside.

   It felt almost normal. Craig could recall about a hundred times he'd laid in bed at home listening to the same sounds: Clyde staying over, using the Tucker household's shower even though his own was right next door, and Craig with the blankets pulled up to his waist, trying not to think about it. He remembered countless rainy days in that bedroom, building _Millennium Falcon_ models or watching Red Racer or just laying on the carpet talking about nothing much while Spot wheeked happily in her cage, joining in. Why did things have to change? Those were some of the best days of Craig's life: days with Clyde, and home, and television.

   He began to drift. The week on the tour bus had exhausted him -- he was sure everyone felt the same way, after playing so many venues in quick succession. He started to feel carsick all the time, and he did not sleep at all well in Bebe's bed. Craig had received feedback that he was bony and sometimes jabbed at her with his elbows; Craig had responded that her hair took up the entire pillow, making him sneeze in the night.

   Craig was startled awake by the front door opening for a second time. Outside, the rain had stopped, and Judge Judy was on television now, and Clyde was sitting at the other end of the couch, looking barely awake himself. Craig felt a surge of annoyance with himself that he had fallen asleep, and another when he realised that it was Stan and Kyle who had woken him, though they did not seem to have noticed. Craig watched blearily as they crossed the room to set down what they'd come back with; two large square pizza boxes, and a couple of plastic grocery bags.

   "Hungry?" asked Stan, looking over his shoulder, grinning for some reason. Craig didn't know what he was so happy about. He was more surprised, in fact, that it was already dinnertime, and that such a deep sleep had managed to creep up on him.

   They all sat on the floor to eat, once Token and Bebe had emerged from the guest bedroom, and Kyle had handed out plates. He and Stan were having whole-wheat pasta with a green sauce, and Craig was grateful not to be subjected to it.

   "Is this real pizza?" Clyde asked as he took his first slice, holding his hand under it to protect the floor from drippage.

   "Yeah it's real pizza," Stan said. "Just 'cause we don't eat pizza anymore doesn't mean you can't."

   "What a depressing sentence," Kyle remarked. " _We don't eat pizza anymore_."

   "Well, you can eat whatever you want," Stan replied, and raised his eyebrows. "Nobody's stopping you."

   Kyle was clearly unimpressed by this, but he said nothing. Craig felt that he minded the two of them less while he was eating. The pizza was good, at least. Greasy: just the way he liked it.

   "We're actually really happy to have you guys here," Stan said, glancing at Kyle, who did not look happy, and was suddenly very focused on spearing some food on the end of his fork. "What do you think of New York?"

   "We haven't left the apartment yet," Token said.

   "But the view from the window is nice," Clyde offered.

   The rest of the night went by too slowly for Craig's liking, though it was not quite as gruelling as he had expected. After dinner he was left mostly to his own devices, so he sat on the couch and did some editing on his laptop while the others turned the lights down and scrolled through Netflix for an hour, before finally settling on an inoffensive superhero movie franchise to watch. The awkwardness was stifling -- everyone else seemed comfortable, but Craig could not adjust to lazing around like it was a middle school sleepover in somebody's basement. Like they actually wanted to be here. Craig supposed nobody would care if he just got up and left, somehow found his way back to the bus, and slept in somebody else's bunk instead of settling for Kyle's floor. Maybe he could sleep in Clyde's bunk. Craig frowned to himself at the thought -- it seemed creepy, and also a poor substitute for sleeping beside Clyde himself, which would at least be a possibility at Kyle's.

   Around midnight, when Craig had long since run out of actual tasks and was pretending to be busy while looking at Twitter, murmurs started to go around about turning in. As he got ready for bed, Craig found himself feeling nervous, though he could not say why. Probably it was something to do with the New York, the sheer scope of it and the overwhelming sense that he did not belong here, though perhaps it was just Kyle's apartment in which he did not belong, because it was so cavernous and so cold and most of the surfaces were reflective, which he found unsettling.

   That made more sense than anything Clyde-related, at least. Why should he be nervous? Craig pondered this while he took his turn in the guest bathroom, brushing his teeth and washing his face as slowly as he could get away with. He'd spent countless hours alone with Clyde, in the stockroom at work or their bedrooms at home, and yes, it was true that he occasionally caught himself staring, or zoned out completely thinking about how soft Clyde's lips would be if he was lucky enough to kiss them, but it had never been an _issue_. Never like this. And admittedly, back then he had not been confronted with any graphic images of what Clyde's dick looked like, but so what? He'd thought about it enough to have constructed a pretty good estimate in his mind. It wasn't a big deal, Craig thought as he splashed cold water on his face. It shouldn't be a big deal.

   And yet, it was getting under his skin in the worst way. So it was really no surprise that, curled up under the blanket pile on the guest bedroom's carpet, Craig struggled to fall asleep. Token had already claimed the bed, so Clyde was next to him, also awake. Craig knew this because every fifteen minutes or so he would reach for his phone to check the time, then sigh and set it down again.

    After at least an hour, Craig rolled onto his back. "It's too quiet in this apartment," he said aloud, hoping Clyde would know what he meant.

   "Yeah," Clyde said, without missing a beat. "And Token sleeps like he's dead."

   "Do I not sleep like I'm dead?" Craig wondered.

   "Like a dead cockroach, maybe." Clyde propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at Craig, who did his best to appear impassive. "Because they flail around like they're still alive."

   "Don't call me a dead cockroach."

   "Sorry." Clyde settled back down. "I mean-- you're not." 

   The silence returned. Craig made sure to fidget every few seconds, under the guise of getting comfortable, so that Clyde would not think he had fallen asleep. If there was ever a time to bring up accidentally sending somebody a picture of your rock-hard dick, Craig thought, this would probably be it.

   "Dead cockroach," Clyde commented, after at least ten minutes of this.

   "Shut up," said Craig, and snorted. If there had ever been tension, it was gone now: Craig turned to face Clyde, still smiling, and found that he was already being watched. Their eyes met in the dark, and for a moment Clyde looked troubled by something, but then he relaxed again, and smiled back. "Do I seriously flail?" Craig asked.

   "No," Clyde said, thoughtfully. "Well. Sometimes. But it's more that you, like, cling."

   Craig stopped smiling. "...You're fucking with me."

   "I'm not," Clyde insisted. "Sometimes I wake up in the night, and I can feel you."

   "Feel what?"

   "You hugging me."

   "I don't hug you. I don't even like hugging people," Craig said, or rather heard himself say. It seemed a poor defence, yet it was all he had.

   "I guess you do when you're asleep," Clyde said, his smile slipping. "Sorry. I thought you knew."

   "Of course I didn't fucking know!" Craig said. In that moment, Craig hated his brown eyes; always earnest, always shining, betraying every single flicker of emotion, every hurt feeling.

   "Dude, you asked," Clyde said. He was propping himself up on this elbow to watch Craig with a frown. "Why are you freaking out?"

   "Because," Craig said, and sat up fully, resting his weight behind him, on his palms. "Are you kidding? What other weird shit do I do in my sleep that you never told me about?"

   Then Token rolled over, bedsprings creaking. "Can you two shut the hell up?" he said, squinting through the dark.

   "Ugh." Craig dropped his voice to a whisper. "Just forget it."

   But it was not forgotten. Clyde laid there silent for as long as it took for it to be apparent that Token had fallen back asleep, and in that time Craig could only stare up at the ceiling and seethe, furious not with Clyde but with himself, for just about every single thing that he had ever done to lead up to this moment -- the bed-sharing, the fantasising, the band. All of it.

   "It's not weird," Clyde said, as though there had been no break in their conversation at all. He was so calm, so at peace with the whole thing that it almost made Craig want to smack him, to bring him back down to earth. "Do you think it's weird?"

   "It's really fucking weird," Craig said, struggling to keep his voice even. "What's with you not getting when things are weird?"

   Clyde went very still - so still that Craig could hear, at once, the sound of Token's breathing, the rustling of the sheets, his own heartbeat. "...What do you mean?"

   "I just mean..." Craig trailed off. He clenched his hands in his lap and stared down at them, struggling to find words. "I don't know what I mean. I don't know why you're okay with it. You wouldn't be okay if it was Token, or-- Stan, or something."

   "Well, yeah. I think it's fair that I'd be pretty weirded out if it was Stan, since I haven't really hung out with him in years and in this scenario he's just crawling into bed with me--"

   "But it's not weird when I crawl into bed with you," Craig said.

   Just like that, Clyde was silenced, and he blinked.

   "...I guess I just thought it was a me and you thing," he said.

   At once, Craig's sick, gripping terror began to fade. A _me and you_ thing -- wasn't it always? But still he said, almost reflexively: "I don't even know what that means."

   "It means I wouldn't do that with anyone else. Obviously." Annoyed, Clyde threw the covers off of himself, and for a moment Craig expected him to get up and leave, but all he did was gesture towards his stomach, which sat rounded under the t-shirt he was wearing, quivering with each breath. Craig was surprised to be invited to look. "You don't get the stress of sleeping in someone's bed, with this thing," Clyde continued, and then it clicked that he had not been pointing to his stomach, exactly, and Craig averted his eyes. "It kind of... leaks at night, sometimes? But I know you wouldn't..." His voice cracked horribly on the last syllable, and Craig looked up, scarcely able to believe what he had just heard. "I mean, with Bebe or Token, they would  _pretend_ they didn't care but they totally would care--"

   "Clyde, what--?"

   "I don't know," Clyde sniffed. Tears were dripping from his chin, and he was making no effort to hide them. "I thought it mattered."

   "Sure," Craig said. "It mattered."

   "Oh, god."

   "No, it did," Craig said, reaching out to touch Clyde's arm, which was just there, limp against the sheets. "I loved it."

   "You _loved_  it?"

   Clyde's eyes were wide, hopeful. It was a rare thing for Craig to admit that he loved anything, or even approved of it.

   "I." Craig swallowed, and withdrew his hand. "Yeah," he said. "It was peaceful."

   "I always slept better," Clyde said, like it was a secret.

   "I didn't," Craig said, and Clyde's face fell. "But I'm glad you did."

   "Oh."

   "It's okay," Craig said, before Clyde could apologise. He didn't seem to be crying anymore, though his eyes were still wet. The urge to kiss him was overwhelming, but also wildly inappropriate, and Craig settled instead for trying to smile, unsure if Clyde would even notice in the dark. Some great ball of emotion was gathering in his throat, making him afraid to speak. There was so much he wanted to say, and yet he found himself edging over, putting a few more inches of distance between them before saying, "Maybe let's just go to sleep," so abruptly that Clyde didn't say anything more, all night. 

  
-v-

   
   The following morning, Token and Clyde left early: probably shopping for mattresses. Stan left early as well, but Craig didn't know or care where he was going. This left Craig and Bebe to stagnate on the couch and watch _My Super Sweet 16_ , which was their mutual favourite activity. In high school, they had first bonded over their love for trashy reality television when Craig had noticed Bebe watching _Jersey Shore_  on her phone under the table during a detention. He had made a point of sitting next to her from then on, and they shared her earphones, making the hour a little more bearable.

   Back then, they had not yet refined their tastes to appreciate the very best that MTV had to offer. Now, they were watching a girl having a screaming tantrum over a Lexus while Kyle pottered around the loft, spritzing the place with air freshener, making a few rounds with a _Swiffer_  mop, and dusting the same lamp several times.

   "We're getting Chinese food for dinner tonight," he said at one point, from the kitchen, where he was leaning over the counter, poised to write in a notebook. "Bebe, what do you want?"

   "Lo mein," Bebe said, without looking away from the TV. She was laying mostly on Craig at this point, with her body squashed between his and the back of the couch, and her head on his chest.

   "Okay." Kyle wrote this down. Then he reached for his phone and started scrolling through it.

   "What, I don't get anything?" asked Craig. 

   Kyle did not look up from his phone. "Oh, no," he said. "You already have dinner plans."

   "Excuse me?" Craig asked, craning his neck to try to look at Kyle without disturbing Bebe, who was in such an all-consuming couch potato mode that Craig wondered if she was still hungover from two days ago. Kyle was smirking -- that was dangerous. "What does that mean?"

   "I was thinking we could make a deal. Stan said--" Kyle trailed off, grimacing. "Well, let's just say he feels bad for Tweek or something. I don't know." Kyle said this nonchalantly, twirling his pen between his fingers, though Craig imagined the conversation had gone much differently, if it had managed to sway him on this issue to the degree that he was willing to even speak to Craig, nevermind bargain with him. "So I said I'd give him a chance, if you do a favour for me."

   "Which is what?"

   "You're going on a date tonight."

   Craig's stomach turned over, though he tried not to let it show. He could think of few things more agonising than spending the evening with some smarmy New York guy. Especially one that Kyle introduced him to. "I don't think so," he said, shifting his gaze back to the television. "I'm not interested in starting a new career as a rent boy."

   Kyle had the audacity to laugh. "Craig, don't make it weird. It's just dinner. Kind of presumptuous of you to assume he'd want to have sex."

   He said this so airily that it was doubtful he'd meant it as an insult, though Craig felt wounded anyway. On TV, the birthday girl was sobbing hysterically in a parking lot, screaming about her ruined day. Craig found himself relating.

   "And you just assume I'm available to go on dates whenever you tell me to?" he said, coldly.

   "Oh," Kyle said, as though he had not considered this. He touched the tip of the pen to his lip, the picture of thoughtful innocence. "Did you and Tweek finally work things out?"

   "Ugh," Craig said. "Shut up."

   Kyle looked pleased despite himself. "So you'll go?"

   "Yeah, okay," Craig said. He hoped it sounded like going on dates was a thing he did often, barely worth a second thought. "With who? I hope it isn't you."

   "Butters, obviously."

   "Oh," Craig said. "Obviously."

   "He needs to put himself out there," Kyle explained, matter-of-factly. "Otherwise he's going to get bored and go back to Cartman, because that's what he always does, and I thought if he could just see what it's like to  _not_ be in a totally fucked-up situation..." He sighed, as though the whole thing was very demanding of him. "Maybe he can learn to respect himself."

   "Did you tell him all that?"

   "No," Kyle said. "I just told him you were having dinner."

   "Awesome," Craig said. He wasn't sure if he should be flattered, that a date with him wouldn't be considered 'a totally fucked-up situation', or concerned, because he was pretty sure he was the last person in the world who'd be qualified to teach Butters self-respect. He glanced to Bebe, hoping she'd sympathise, but she was fast asleep and snoring gently, a dead weight across his chest.

  
-v-

  
   Craig took a shower late in the afternoon, enjoying the superior water pressure and fact that every single product in the guest bathroom was of the same high-end brand, from the hand soap to the shower gel to the shampoo which smelled cloyingly of lavender, as if Stan and Kyle had simply walked into one store and purchased one of everything, indiscriminately. The idea was hilarious. It was hilarious that Craig was even here, showering in Kyle's shower, when two months ago Kyle Broflovski was all but dead to him, an apparition who appeared every once in a while to say condescending things to Craig on the street before vanishing to the alternate universe from whence he had come. What did any of it mean? Was Craig part of that same universe now? Or was he just visiting, a guest not only in Stan and Kyle's home but also their lives?

   When he left the room, groomed and dressed and feeling a little light-headed, he found that everyone was back, and gathered around the island counter where Kyle was sitting again, now the center of attention. Craig had no idea why Kyle felt the need to write everyone's dinner orders down hours ahead of time, but he supposed that was just the level of control freak that he had managed to achieve over the years.

   Craig wanted nothing to do with it, so he hung back. He was worried that if he got any closer, Kyle might spontaneously announce the fact that Craig was going on a date for the first time in his adult life, with someone he wasn't particularly attracted to, as part of a bribe. His stomach roiled -- he was already dreading it. He could not imagine what Butters would be like on a date. Overbearing, probably. He had no idea if Butters had ever really gone out with anyone before, and in fact had no idea what Butters had been doing for the past few years in general, outside of his job and the dysfunctional fuck-buddy situation in which he had involved himself. Would he bring chocolates or flowers or something, or did he expect Craig to do that? Did  _anyone_ bring flowers on a first date?

   Craig accidentally caught Stan's eye and found himself thinking, yes, some people probably did, and he was embarrassed on their behalf.

   Being in the same room as Stan was making him so viscerally uncomfortable that Craig would've taken any excuse to leave the apartment at that moment. Luckily, one came in the form of Token heading for the door.

   "Where are you going?" Craig asked him.

   "Straight back out," Token said. "I have another viewing at one o'clock."

   "Viewing of what?" Craig asked, for some reason thinking of a corpse.

   "A house." At Craig's blank look, he shrugged. "It doesn't hurt to look."

   "I'll come with you," Craig decided, and grabbed his jacket.

   The viewing turned out to be a couple of blocks away, though the street looked almost exactly the same as the one Kyle lived on. Craig followed along behind Token and a severe-looking realtor, who was telling them at length about how the place had been featured on the cover of some interior design magazine a year ago. He hung back, disinterested in the historic wood skirting and hundred-year-old window panes, while Token went around touching everything as though to confirm its authenticity. Eventually, she left them alone in one of the five bedrooms, which boasted an en suite and an antique fireplace, and was furnished in ocres and rich browns.

   "I wish I could stay here for a while," Craig said. The room was dimly lit by one floor lamp in the far corner, and the traffic outside reduced to only a hum. "This is the most peace and quiet I've had in like, a week."

   "Me too," Token said. He stayed standing, looking vaguely out of the window which occupied most of the wall opposite from the bed, and provided a view of the street below. "What do you think of this house?"

   "It's big," Craig said. He considered adding to this assessment, but decided that he had summed it up well enough.

   "Yeah. I wouldn't want a place like this just yet," Token said, oddly casually, as if that had ever been on the table. "Not until I have kids."

   Craig snorted. "What are you talking about, kids? You don't even have a girlfriend."

   "In the future, I mean," Token said. "Obviously."

   "How many kids are we talking about, here?"

   "I don't know. I guess it would depend on what my wife wanted. Since she'd be the one... you know." He glanced to Craig, and sighed. "Don't look at me like that."

   "I'm sorry," Craig said, though he wasn't. "Don't take it personally. This is how I'd react if anybody asked me if I thought a house would be appropriate for their future wife and nine kids."

   "I did not even say that," Token said, though he was smiling, clearly trying not to. "I was thinking between one and three kids. At most, four."

   "Two is a pretty good number of kids," Craig said. He was thinking of his years of keeping cohabiting guinea pigs; one that belonged to him, and another which ostensibly belonged to his sister but essentially also belonged to him, because Ruby was a lazy pet owner, and fundamentally under-educated on some key facets of guinea pig care. Then he considered Ruby herself, and what his life might have been like without her. It was hard to imagine.

   "Noted," Token said, as they wandered back downstairs and through to the kitchen. Craig could see the realtor through the window, taking a phone call outside on the sidewalk. "I hope it isn't rude to leave without making an offer or something."

   "Did she mention how much the rent is on this place?" asked Craig.

   "It's not for rent, it's for sale." Token was examining the kitchen closely now, peering into cabinets, inspecting their depth. "And I'm pretty sure that if you have to ask, you can't afford it."

   "And yet, we're here." 

   Token shrugged. "I like to have goals," he said. After a beat, he turned around and looked Craig in the eyes. "What do your parents think of this?"

   "What?" Craig asked, looking around. "This house?"

   Token rolled his eyes. "No, this tour. The band."

   "I have no idea. I never asked them what they thought."

   "You didn't _ask_?"

   "No. I guess they're supportive. They like you, and Bebe, and my mom fucking adores Clyde. But I never asked," Craig said. "Did you?"

   "I didn't have to," Token said. "My parents think I should be doing post-grad next year, but I didn't apply to a single school. They can't wrap their minds around it. Who gets a degree in Economics and then runs off to become a musician?" He looked to Craig as though expecting an answer. Then he smiled, almost fondly. "They're smart people. They just don't want to acknowledge the obvious, which is that I did it because it's what they wanted me to do. And now I'm doing what I want to do."

   "At least you have something to fall back on," Craig said, slightly surprised by his own optimism.

   "Please. We both know I have no intention of falling back on it," Token said. "It was a waste of four years."

   "Like we were doing anything more important in South Park." 

   Token shrugged, conceding the point.

   "It's funny," he said. "My mom and dad aren't strict. They're not angry. But before I left, they kept looking at me like they felt sorry for me. Like I'm setting myself up to fail." He sighed. "It's almost worse."

   "Worse than what?"

   "Worse than if they were pissed," Token said, now exploring the fridge, which boasted a water purifier and an ice dispenser. It was taller than Craig, which was saying something. "Remember what Kyle's mom was like at graduation?"

   "Yeah," Craig said, because it was hard not to remember. "I wonder if she's over that."

   "Let me put it this way: have you ever Googled his net worth?" Token said. "Not that those sites are ever accurate, but, God. He more than made up for skipping college. He could easily buy this place five times over."

   Craig raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me you're jealous of Kyle Broflovski."

   "I'm not _jealous_ , I'm inspired. Don't project."

   "Are you kidding? I'd rather live in a sewer than here," Craig said, meaning New York. "I'd rather live in South Park, actually. And that's saying something."

   "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about your outburst, or whatever you would call it," Token said, bending to look inside the crisper. "'Statistically, this is impossible.' I mean, you really didn't hold back."

   Craig tensed. "What are you saying?"

   "I'm saying, don't act like Kyle doesn't have something you want, too."

   "Token," said Craig, closing his eyes. "Shut up."

   "Well, I'm serious. You wouldn't have exploded like that if it wasn't bothering you. You should really come to the afterparties," he added, casually. "I've never seen so many gay men in one place."

   "I'm not interested in Moop's cling-ons. And I'm not comfortable talking about this, actually."

   "Sorry," Token said, though Craig sensed he wasn't.

   "Look, I'm not trying to be a dick. I just have a lot on my mind right now," Craig said, leaning back against the counter. He thought about telling Token about his dinner with Butters that evening, but decided against it. The less people who found out about that, Craig thought, the better. He sighed. "Is it just me, or has Clyde been acting really weird  since we got here?"

   "I think that whole leak thing really got to him," Token said. He closed the fridge door and turned around, crossing his arms. "Apparently it hasn't happened in a while."

   "Oh. Yeah," Craig said. He was thrown by the fact that his had suddenly become a discussion about the colostomy, when Craig had had something very different in mind. It was something they rarely talked about even when Clyde was present, mostly because Craig had exhausted most of the questions he had about the surgery by the time they were six. Growing up, he'd sometimes wondered if it would interfere with Clyde's sex life somehow, but had never asked about it. It was apparent, now, that it was not an issue after all.

   "You'd think it would be harder for him to explain to girls," Craig mused. "Like, random girls."

   "What random girls?" Token asked.

   "I don't know," Craig said, and pretended to think about it. "Like that roadie he slept with in Denver."

   "He didn't sleep with her," Token said. When he noticed the look on Craig's face, he raised his eyebrows, and continued, "I thought he told you about that? He was looking for you everywhere that night."

   "Me?"

   "Yeah. He said he couldn't get it up with that girl and he was drunk and he wanted to talk to you." Token frowned, remembering. "But you weren't around anywhere, so I took him back to the bus to sleep it off. What?" he added, when Craig remained speechless.

   "Why would he want to talk to me?"

   "I don't know, because he was embarrassed?" Token said, and shrugged. "I don't think she was exactly nice to him about it."

   "Was he crying?"

   "Jesus, Craig," said Token. "Yeah, a little. He's been avoiding her like crazy since then."

   "Shit." Craig exhaled. "I didn't know."

   "It's not that big of a deal," said Token. "I mean, I'm assuming he's over it. It was weeks ago."

   But Token's words kept playing on Craig's mind as they left the house and started walking. They took the long way back to Kyle's place, passing by the Brooklyn bridge. There was nothing in particular that Craig wanted to see, but he also was in no hurry to get back to the apartment. Something about it unsettled him, felt inhospitable. Like Mars, if Mars was occupied by two of the most self-obsessed and pretentious people in the world who, on top of everything else, had become a gay couple at some point, as though to taunt him specifically. Craig was aware that this notion was ridiculous: Stan and Kyle probably hadn't spared him a single thought over the past four years, and the inner workings of their lives had really nothing at all to do with him. And yet, like Mars, he found that they had become suffocating and inescapable now that he was once again within their orbit.

   They stopped at a cart for lunch, and Craig found the vendor to be overly gracious or perhaps flirtatious, and he wanted to double-check what neighbourhood they were in, to find out whether this might actually be plausible. It was just as likely that he was overreacting to a New Yorker being friendly. So far, he had been perturbed by how few people acknowledged him in the street compared to at home -- but no one had looked at him like that in years, maybe since Tweek, and it was so jarring that Craig felt not entirely himself as he and Token walked together back to Kyle's place. The two of them parted ways at the front door: Token was heading out to meet Clyde, Bebe and Kenny for drinks at some Caribbean-themed bar. Craig wished he was joining them, but he knew he was expected back soon, to get ready for his ridiculous date.

   He headed up the elevator and then let himself into the loft, finding the door unlocked. Stan and Kyle were at the kitchen island again, seated on opposite sides of it, so preoccupied they didn't notice Craig at first. For one horrible moment, Craig thought he'd walked in on some kind of intimate moment. Then he realised they just had their heads together over an iPad, looking at something on the screen.

   "Finally!" Kyle exclaimed, when Craig closed the front door loudly enough that it drew his attention. "Where have you been all day?"

   Craig thought this was a little dramatic, considering it was barely four o'clock. "Me and Token went for lunch," he said, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up. "I think some guy hit on me. He sold us our food."

    "That fucking gay hot dog guy?" Kyle said. When Craig nodded, he rolled his eyes and gave Stan a long-suffering look before turning back to Craig and adding, with weight, "Ignore him. He hits on everybody, and I've seen people go for it. He must be riddled with STDs by now."

   "That's so rude," Stan said, momentarily disapproving. Then he reconsidered: "But probably true, though."

   "Well, thanks. I was feeling good about it until you said that."

   Kyle shrugged. "I'm sorry, but that guy would give you the kind of souvenir you don't want to take back from New York. Trust me."

   "What, he gave you something?" asked Craig.

   "No, just. I'm looking out for you. I'm giving you good advice, Craig," Kyle said. Then he gestured to the stool next to the one Stan was on. "Anyway, come sit here. We were just talking about where you're going to take Butters tonight."

   "Oh," Craig said, approaching with caution. "Stan's involved."

   Stan opened his mouth to reply, but Kyle beat him to it. "Of course he's involved," he said, almost snapping. "Sit down." Craig sat, and looked at the iPad. Though it was upside-down from his perspective, he recognised Google Maps. Kyle was scrolling around, zooming in and out with his fingers. "So I'm thinking you'll want to go somewhere in the Village, because, you know, why wouldn't you? You have to see it." He smiled to himself then, as if Greenwich Village itself was a gift he was bestowing upon Craig, magnanimously. "I know a vegetarian restaurant--"

   "No," Craig cut him off. "Absolutely not."

   Kyle didn't argue. He put his chin in his hand, thinking. "You could go to that Momofuku place off Bowery. I think I could get you a reservation."

   "What is that, Japanese?"

   "Oh, forget it. Though I do know an awesome sushi place. It's way out of your price range. Butters will love it."

   "I don't really like fish," Craig said. "Especially not a date. I mean, that seems gross."

   "Why, are you planning on kissing him?" Stan asked, raising his eyebrows at him side-on, and Craig was struck for a second, because he never imagined Stan Marsh would be teasing him about kissing a guy. It was absurd. He almost laughed.

   "No, but just... the concept. Sushi? It's a turn-off."

   Kyle went back to the iPad, clearly irritated. "Well, that was my last idea."

   "Seriously?" Craig said. "You know three restaurants?"

   "I know hundreds of restaurants. I just don't know a lot that are good for _dates_ ," Kyle said, folding his arms on the table. "You know. Because people might look twice if me and Stan were having romantic dinners together in the Village every goddamn night."

   "We get Chinese food delivered to the apartment every goddamn night instead," Stan told Craig, mildly.

   "Sometimes we get Thai," Kyle corrected him, half-smiling.

   Kyle flitted around some more on Google Maps, picking places seemingly at random and reading out the descriptions. Each one was more pretentious than the last, each type of cuisine further from anything Craig had tried before. "These places are all weird," he eventually complained, when Kyle was mid-way through attempting to convince him to try 'Filipino-Hawaiian fusion in an upscale setting'. "I want to go to a chain restaurant."

   Kyle rolled his eyes again. Then, as though explaining something very simple to a very young child, he said, with great emphasis, "You can't come to Manhattan and go to a chain restaurant. That's just not okay. The whole point of living in New York is that the entire world's cuisine is right outside your door."

   "There's a Wendy's near your apartment," Craig said, pointing at the iPad.

   "A _Wendy's_ is exactly the kind of establishment that will drive Butters back into the arms of Eric Cartman! You think the smell of grease and cheeseburgers wont remind him of-- of days gone by, or whatever?"

   Stan snorted. "Days gone by, really?"

   "It says here that there's a place that only does mac and cheese," Craig suggested, scrolling along 1st Avenue now. It fell on deaf ears.

   "What about Korean barbecue?" Kyle asked, leaning on the counter. "Are you into that?"

   "There is that one street," Stan said, "that has just Italian restaurants."

   For a second, Kyle tilted his head and stared at him, incredulous. "Little Italy? Are you kidding me?"

   "What?" Stan said. "How is that not a good idea?"

   "Because, fuck Italian food," said Kyle. "There are Italian restaurants in South Park."

   Craig couldn't help laughing. "What, Faggoncini and Whistlin' Willy's?"

   "Yes! And all you fucking ate growing up was pizza, Craig, if I remember."

   "Whatever," Craig said. "I'll get chicken parm."

   Stan snapped his fingers. "I know a place that specialises in chicken parm."

   "No way," Craig said.

   They settled on some place which was close to, but apparently not strictly within the boundaries of, Little Italy. This seemed to sate Kyle in some way, and he sent Craig out of the front door an hour later with printed-out directions, one hundred dollars in cash, and a look of such deep apprehension that Craig could not help wondering what was really riding on this date. Would Butters be reporting back? If he was not adequately charmed, would Tweek end up on the next plane back to Colorado before Craig could do anything about it? Was this an episode of the fucking _Bachelor_ , or what? 

   The directions meant nothing to Craig, but at least he knew what he was looking for. "It's a spaghetti restaurant," Kyle had said, which had made Craig raise his eyebrows.

   "You mean an Italian restaurant."

   "No, I don't," Kyle said, shortly, as the elevator doors closed on him.

   Craig was supposed to be meeting Butters at the closest subway station, which was a straight walk up the street that Kyle lived on. At first, Craig genuinely could not tell if this area was run-down or opulent, but during the short walk he passed by a designer boutique, several upscale gyms, and an organic juice bar. The sun was well and truly gone now, the clouds looming overhead, but it was still hot enough that he didn't miss his coat. As usual, Craig had had no idea what he should wear, and had settled on a black t-shirt and black jeans. He'd also decided to leave his hat behind. When he arrived at the station, Butters was already there, and he commented on this immediately.

   "Oh, wow!" he said, in greeting. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, seemingly delighted, and he was wearing a lavender button-down shirt that looked too clean for the street they were standing on. "When's the last time I saw you without your hat?"

   "Probably not that long ago," Craig said. He held up the paper Kyle had given him. "Do you know where this place is? Because I'm already lost."

   Butters took the paper and scanned the directions. "You've never been to New York before, huh?" he said, as they started walking, falling into step. Craig shook his head. "I cried the first time I went to the Stonewall Inn," Butters said, as though he was proud of his for some reason. Then he added, "And so did Kyle."

   "I don't think I want to go there." Craig put his hands in his pockets, feeling exposed. "Big cities freak me out a little."

   "Really?"

   "Yeah. I mean, Denver's Denver, but there are millions of people here and I feel like they all know I'm, you know." For a moment, he struggled to find the right word, before settling on, "...a redneck, or whatever."

   Butters smiled. "Well, that's the great thing about places like this. People come from all over. The lady working at the reception in my hotel is from London, and she said it rains there all the time. I told her, in South Park it snows all year except July and August, and that's why I left. But I don't think she believed me."

   Craig was surprised. "That's why you left?"

   "It's one reason." Butters gave an uncertain sort of shrug. "I don't like the snow much."

   Craig had never really considered whether he liked the snow or not: it seemed like a waste of time, considering it would be there regardless of how he felt about it. He didn't miss it so far, but it was summer. South Park would be thawing soon, just in time for the Fourth of July.

   "Have you seen snow since you moved away?" he asked.

   "Well, sure," said Butters. "I didn't always live in California. At least, not all the time. I spent a couple months in Anchorage once, and it was real cold up there, but gosh, it was a whole lot easier on my wallet!"

   Craig raised his eyebrows. "Who just goes to Alaska for a few months?"

   "I needed to get away for a while. And I guess it reminded me of home, a little," Butters admitted, his expression unreadable. "South Park."

   "You're not missing anything," Craig told him. He was thinking of home now, too, and what was there to say about it? "Seriously, Butters, it's exactly the same."

   "Well, it's only been four years." Tightly, Butters smiled again. "How are my parents doin'?"

   "I don't know. Fine." Craig tried to think of all the asinine gossip he'd overheard through the years, the stories his mother came home with from her book club. "I heard they got into some kind of land dispute with the people in that red house next door. They were pissed off about the oak tree, or something."

   Butters' eyes lit up. "You could get into my bedroom window from that tree," he said, with a fondness Craig found surprising. "Yeah. People used it to climb in there all the time. Well, mostly Eric."

   Craig stopped in his tracks. "You're kidding."

   "Not for sex," Butters said, blushing scarlet in an instant. "Just to, you know. Bug me about stuff. Sorry. It's bad taste to bring that up on a... a date."

   "Oh." Craig blinked. For a second, he had forgotten. 

   They had come to a stop outside a tiny unit, barely recognisable as a restaurant at all. It had an awning, but no sineage except a half-transparent print on the window. A few potted plants sat on the sidewalk; wild ferns and spilling ivy. Butters held the door open for Craig, all smiles again.

   "Don't worry, I'm not gonna get all sappy with you. I know Kyle asked you to go out with me, to cheer me up. Well. It's working, anyway," he said, as they both went inside. "This is my first ever real date."

   Craig was startled to hear this, though he tried not to show it. He had always thought Butters was fairly attractive, though he had never really been attracted _to_  Butters, and couldn't put his finger on why exactly that was. Butters had always been popular with girls, Craig knew, though less so once they got to know him. Probably they were drawn to his bright eyes, cherubic face, and generally non-threatening demeanour. Butters' hair was blonder than ever now, maybe bleached, and his tan had faded to a healthy glow, and he was thin without being weedy, though Craig couldn't imagine Butters going to the gym or playing a sport. Maybe, Craig thought, his problem was the fact that Butters had always been so unpredictable. Sometimes he was obedient and pathetic; sometimes he was defensive and almost volatile. Mostly, he spent so much time reacting to other people's mistreatment of him that Craig knew little about his personality outside of that, or if he even had one at all.

   Still, Butters was not the kind of person he'd be ashamed to be seen with in public, having an intimate dinner-for-two at some not-Italian restaurant. Who could complain -- especially when Kyle was paying for everything.

   They were greeted immediately by a man behind the counter, who gestured for them to sit wherever they wanted. They took a table in the corner, and were handed menus and, to the apparent delight of Butters, the small votive candle on their table was lit. It sat within a red glass jar, flickering. It was a nice restaurant, clean and not too dark inside, near-empty before the dinner rush.

   "Let's get three courses," Craig said. Butters had snagged the seat with its back to the wall, and Craig felt the need to lean into the table and say this in a conspiratorial sort of way, which made Butters laugh. Even after all these years, he still had the same half-maniacal giggle he did as a child.

   "I couldn't eat _three_  courses," Butters said, putting emphasis on  _three,_ like it was a truly outrageous number. "Maybe dessert, though. You know, there's a place back home that has the best cheesecake in the whole world. You have to try it when you come to LA -- I'll take you!"

   Craig looked him over warily, wondering if Butters was already planning a second date. Probably this was a normal thing people did to their friends who were visiting: everybody seemed to possess this strange need to show him their favourite spots in the regions where they had chosen to live. Craig couldn't imagine wanting to show South Park to anyone who hadn't been there before. Where would he even start? The cows?

   "So, you live in the gay capital of the world and you never dated anyone?" Craig asked as he skimmed the drinks menu, wondering if he'd be able to get through a glass of wine, just for appearance's sake.

   "Santa Monica isn't the gay capital of the world, exactly," Butters said.

   "I mean, California."

   "Oh. Well, I guess I'm not the dating type of person. If you know what I mean."

   "No. What do you mean?" Craig asked, but just then a waiter appeared to take their drinks order. Craig ordered a Diet Coke. Butters requested a Bellini. "This is my first real date too," Craig confessed, when the waiter was gone. "Some guy selling hot dogs hit on me earlier, and I was kind of into it. So that's the level of desperation I'm on, I guess."

   "The hot dog guy is still here?" said Butters, perking up a little. " _Wow_. Now that's a blast from the past!"

   "You didn't fuck the hot dog guy," Craig said, not daring to believe it.

   "No! I mean -- I thought about it." He put his chin in his hand, remembering. "It was years ago, though. You really never dated anyone?"

   "Not since middle school," Craig said.

   "Oh, you'd be a hit in LA for sure," Butters said, brightly. "Do you have Tinder?"

   "No," Craig said. "I mean, I was kidding about being desperate. I'm kind of voluntarily single. I don't like the dating scene in South Park. Nobody my age lives there, and everyone is a mess or they're taken."

    _And I'm in love with somebody else_ , Craig didn't say. It seemed kind of beside the point.

   "That's how it is most places," said Butters, wisely. Then he looked down at his menu. "What are you going to order?"

   Craig had been staring at the menu for a while, without actually reading any of it. As expected, almost every main dish was spaghetti-related, though they also had lasagna. Feeling a little rebellious, Craig decided to order that when the waiter returned with their drinks, and they chatted about work and music and their few mutual interests. Butters was easy to talk to, mostly because he didn't ever let a silence lie, always going on about something. Craig didn't always appreciate this, but at the moment, it was like a godsend.

   Just as their food arrived, Craig's phone vibrated on the table with a text from Clyde.

    _Are you on a date with Butters rn?_ it said, taking up the whole of the minuscule screen.

    _Yes,_  Craig texted back. It took him over a minute to type even that, and he was a little distracted, because his lasagna was bubbling, and he was starving, and Butters had decided to switch to iced water after one drink and was asking Craig if he wanted to share a pitcher or if he should just get a glass.

   "I'm good," Craig said. "I hardly ever drink water."

   "Just like always." Butters shook his head, almost sadly. "That's so bad for you, Craig."

   "I know," Craig said. "But at least this is diet soda."

   "I'm pretty sure that's worse, actually," Butters said. He was concentrating very hard on getting a few strands of spaghetti neatly onto his fork, twirling it around and around. Another text came through.

    _Why in the fuck? Lol_

   "Clyde is drunk-texting me," Craig told Butters, who laughed.

   "Oh boy. He was day-drinking, huh?"

   "Apparently," Craig said, as three more texts came through.

    _Really Crig??_

  _Crag*_

    _Craig*_

   Feeling impolite, Craig slipped his phone into his jeans pocket and started on his lasagna. It continued to vibrate periodically, but by the time the conversation moved back around to dating, it had gone silent again.

   "Did you really hook up with somebody in Denver?" Craig asked, trying to sound like he hadn't been wondering this since he'd overheard Cartman's accusation backstage, almost a month ago now, during a screaming argument. Butters had denied it, but whether this was the truth or a lie told out of self-preservation, Craig was unsure.

   "Oh, that? No, Eric was just bein' Eric." Butters had given up on twirling his spaghetti now, and was cutting it into pieces with his knife. "I stayed the night with someone, but he was just a friend."

   "Who was it?"

   "Just an old pal of mine," Butters said, without looking up. His face had become a little pink, but Craig couldn't tell if this was because of the conversation or because of his struggle to cut his spaghetti as it slid around on his plate.

   "Was he from LA?"

   "An older friend than that," Butters said, and Craig supposed this was the best answer he was going to get. "Besides, I avoid most of the LA people I know, nowadays. Too many of 'em are still in the scene, and if they're not, they know about me."

   Craig looked up. "What's 'the scene'?"

   "Um... Well, it's not the kind of scene you talk about in a nice restaurant like this." Butters attempted a self-effacing grin, but his expression crumpled before he could manage it. Craig felt a surge of panic. Kyle would murder him if he made Butters cry. "I figured you'd already know all about everything. Didn't you hear?"

   "Living in South Park is kind of like living under a rock," Craig said. He felt like he should apologise for this, but then, how could he help it?

   "Oh, well, it's nothin' to write home about, I guess. I just was so naive back then," Butters explained, staring down at his plate. He was speaking in a hurry, as though concerned about what conclusions Craig might jump to if he didn't. "I don't even remember how it started-- I was eighteen, and I was a virgin... well, I wasn't a virgin for long, as it turned out," he added, with a shrug. "But, um, anyway. You don't want to hear about all that."

   "Do you want to tell me about it?" Craig asked, proceeding cautiously. The last time he had prodded Butters about his personal issues, it had ended in an awkward embrace in a parking lot. Craig wasn't sure if he was willing to go through that again, here in this restaurant, which was slowly filling up with diners, mostly couples, everybody eating spaghetti with white or red or green sauce, cheerfully.

   "About losing my virginity?" Butters frowned. "It's not much of a good story."

   "I meant about when you lived in LA," Craig said.  
    
   "Oh, well, sure. I feel like I could tell you." Butters pulled his glass of water closer, and started poking at the ice cubes with his straw, sinking them and then letting them rise again. "I mean, I feel like I can trust you. And the memories aren't all bad. Not really."

   Given his track record, Craig had no idea why anybody would trust him. He nodded anyway, trying to look impassive, yet supportive.

   "Well, moving out to California was the first time I ever really felt like I could do whatever I wanted," Butters began, "and I fell in with a pretty weird crowd." For several long seconds, he went quiet, rubbing the backs of his knuckles together, watching his hands with great concentration. "Um. Did you ever read 'Fifty Shades of Grey'?"

   "No," Craig said. "But I'm familiar with the concept."

   "Yeah." Butters exhaled, deeply. "A lot of guys I met, um. They really liked it when I told them about where I came from, and my parents and stuff, my dad hitting me with the belt... they liked it when I got real upset about it. They knew I was used to getting hurt. So." He shrugged. "I didn't ever really say no to anything."

   "Wow," Craig said. He glanced around the room, expecting someone to come over and put a stop to this conversation, half-hoping it would happen, that he wouldn't have to hear the rest. But nobody was looking at them. The restaurant was busy now, buzzing. The couple at the table next to them were leaning in close and speaking quietly, oblivious. "And your friends just, what? Let it happen?"

   Butters was taken aback. "Oh, hamburgers, no! Well, Kyle just about hit the roof when he found out about it all. But he couldn't judge me, or nothin'. Not back then."

   "But he's okay with judging you now, I bet," Craig said, under his breath. Then he paused. "Wait-- Kyle was sleeping around too?"

   "No!" Butters said, shaking his head as if this was a shocking accusation. Craig had to agree -- he couldn't imagine that Kyle was the type. "He was with Stan at the time. Well, I can't tell you much about that. Um, they partied a lot. A lot, a lot. But not with other guys. Never other guys, just--"

   "Drugs?" Craig guessed, half-joking.

   Butters avoided Craig's eyes with purpose. "Anyway," he said, quickly. "Eric hit the roof too, but in a way that kind of made me feel better? Because it was like, he was mad anyone would, uh, take advantage of me. He wasn't mad at me or anything I did. And, um. Well, he said things."

   "What things?"

   "I can't tell you here," Butters said, oddly calmly. "We'd get kicked out. But he rescued me." 

   "He _rescued_  you?" Craig repeated, incredulous. He couldn't imagine Eric Cartman rescuing anyone from anything, whether it was a terrible relationship or a burning building.

   "Yeah. He told me nobody else could touch me but him. And that was it." Butters was staring down into his glass of water, now empty. "It was kinda what I needed."

   "Fuck." Craig took a sharp breath. "I could kill him."

   "What?" Butters looked up, alarmed. "Why?"

   Craig was at a loss for words. In his mind, his argument for murdering Eric Cartman was pretty convincing, but what came out was, "Because-- that's wrong."

   Butters frowned like he was actually mulling that over. "Well, I don't know if I need his help anymore. But I'll always be grateful for what he did for me."

   "Butters, seriously? He's literally a psychopath," Craig said.

   "Craig," Butters said, chiding. "That's not very nice."

   "Okay. Well, whatever." At a loss for what else to say, Craig looked down at his lasagna. It was almost gone, but he'd lost his appetite. "Thanks for telling me about your life, Butters. I'm glad you're doing better."

   "Oh! That's so sweet of you to say that," Butters gushed, beaming like he hadn't just been describing what sounded to Craig like a sort of waking nightmare. That was the thing about Butters, Craig thought: he bounced back. He'd bounced back from this, and he would bounce back from Eric Cartman, just as soon as he managed to squirm free of his clutches. Butters went back to his food with enthusiasm. "Yeah, I'm doing so much better. Things are really great in Santa Monica -- you have to come visit me sometime! You'd love the beach, you know. Have you ever been to the beach before?"

   "Briefly," Craig said, slipping his phone from his pocket and checking it under the table. He had ten unread text messages, all of them from Clyde. One at a time, he opened them in the order he had received them.

_????????????????_

_?????????????????????????????_

_ughhhhhhhhhhgsjdgjf_

_your tearing me apart lisa_

   Then there was an image attachment, which Craig did not open. He left it alone and scrolled through the rest of the messages.

    _show this to him adn be like.... how bow dah_

_text me back_

_call me_

_Call me_

   "Oh, Craig. Your phone." Butters was looking at the Nokia like it was the highlight of his day so far. "Aww, but doesn't it kind of remind you of when we were kids? I had a phone just like that one. I used to play Snake all night when my parents thought I was sleepin'."

   "Yeah." Craig shoved his phone back in his pocket and stood up, currently too preoccupied with a different kind of snake to pay attention to what Butters was talking about. "I'll be right back."

   He left in a hurry, heading for the bathroom. Once he was safely behind the locked door of a cubicle, Craig retrieved his phone with unsteady hands, going through the messages until he got to the attachment. The rational part of his brain told him that it would be nothing -- another stupid meme, or a selfie from Kyle's apartment or something. But his instincts overruled that. The phone was so ancient that the attachment came into view line by line from the top, and by the time it had loaded halfway, Craig was not exactly shocked to confirm that it was another dick pic.

   And there was no way it had been an accident this time.

   He shut his phone off, not just closing the image but powering down the whole thing. He stared at it for a while, the black screen, dead in his hand. There was no way he was going to allow himself to get hard in the bathroom of this fucking spaghetti restaurant. And what was it about bathrooms, anyway? Clyde had been in one in the picture, Craig had noticed, clean white tiles and a sink visible behind him. The guest bathroom at Kyle's apartment. What the hell had he been doing in there? Drunkenly jacking it while everyone else was eating dinner, ten feet away in the living room? Texting Craig frantically to contact him -- and for what? To apologize? Or in the hopes that Craig would be up for some spur-of-the-moment dirty talk, because he was single and he was gay and he was lonely enough to go on a date with Butters, so why wouldn't he be?

   Craig threw the phone down on the floor, and stamped on it with the heel of his shoe. He was wearing canvas lace-ups, which did little damage, but the force sent the phone skidding out from under the stall and clear across the room. Craig swore under his breath, unlocked the door and stepped out of the cubicle to retrieve it from where it had ended up, by the sinks. Lashing out had dampened his anger slightly, but not much. This wasn't even an actual date, but Clyde had felt the need to remind Craig that whatever he managed to find with someone else, they would never be him. Clyde would always be there, with his dumb emotions and his superior dick. And Craig would always be wrapped around his finger, dragged back to him at a moment's notice.

   Some other guy walked into the bathroom then, closing the door loudly behind himself. He didn't look twice at Craig, but it made him feel like an idiot anyway, standing there in the middle of a public bathroom, red in the face and holding a phone practically older than he was. He slipped the god-forsaken thing back into his pocket, and went over to wash his hands, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror above the sink. What would happen, he wondered, if he walked straight out the front door and dialled Clyde's number? How would he sound? What would he say? Did Craig even want to know? 

   No, he decided -- not really. Not in public, and not like this: not while he was in the middle of one of these emotional maelstroms that only Clyde would produce in him. He went back into the restaurant feeling overheated and slightly nauseous. Butters had ordered another drink, and was sipping it demurely, acknowledging Craig with a look as he sat down again at the table.

   "Has Clyde sent you any pictures of his dick lately?" Craig asked, scooting his chair forward just a bit, attempting to get comfortable again.

   Butters choked on his water. "Um! ...No, I can't say he has," he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Why, does he... has he talked about doing that? Does he want to?"

   "No. Just, sometimes he does that, I guess," Craig said. "He's one of those people."

   "I'll certainly be on the look out," said Butters. "But I don't know that I really want to see Clyde's wiener. Just, well-- for the record."

   "No?"

   "No..." Slowly, Butters frowned. "I don't think I do."

   "Hm," said Craig. He leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms. "Well, this is some date."

   "I'm having a nice time," Butters said, earnestly. He clasped his hands together on the table. "Do you want some of my spaghetti?"

   "I'm really not hungry," Craig said, but they ended up ordering dessert anyway, because Butters wanted to try the panna cotta and insisted that Craig eat a few slivers of it as well, sharing a spoon. Nobody seemed to look twice at this, and though Craig found it uncomfortable, it was also sort of fun. When he went out with his friends, dining or drinking, they usually huddled together and complained about work, or money, or other people. It was gratifying, but not exactly enjoyable, and this was different. Craig wondered if Butters was enjoying himself, too, or if he was just counting the seconds before he could go back to Cartman and tell him all about how he'd been obligated to spend his night with the desperate and lonely Craig Tucker, who received sympathy dick pics from his straight friends, and relished attention from sleazy hot dog vendors the world over.

   Craig's strange mood persisted after the cheque had come and gone. It didn't even come close to a hundred dollars, but Craig had no intention of admitting that to Kyle, and he pocketed the rest of the cash without a second thought. The sun was starting to go down, but it was still muggy, the sky clouded over and bruised purple, threatening rain again.

   "What a shitty summer," Craig commented, looking upwards.

   "Oh, it'll be beautiful again before you know it!" Butters chirped. They were taking a different route back to Kyle's place, through smaller streets packed with shopfronts painted every colour of the rainbow, and with such quirky names that Craig had no idea what they were trying to sell, if anything. They were all shuttered, lights on in the apartments above. "Two weeks in Florida? Why, that's the kinda weather that makes you want to become a nudist, 'cause everything just sticks to you."

  "Yeah," Craig said, deciding to take Butters' word for it. It got that hot in South Park maybe twice a year, and Craig preferred to spend those days in his room with the AC blasting, playing video games with the curtains closed. "Tweek told me you lived down there with Kenny for a while."

   "Oh, sure." Butters smiled widely at the memory. "I just didn't know where I wanted to settle, after LA. Turns out, I didn't go too far after all. Not like Kenny. And Stan and Kyle."

   "What's so great about the East coast?" Craig wondered.

   Butters frowned. "What, you don't like it?"

   "I mean, don't they work in California? And record there, and stuff?"

   "Oh, yeah." Butters shrugged like flying back and forth across the country was no big deal. Craig supposed it wouldn't be, to him. "Well, we all lived in real close quarters for a while, and I think for those fellas, it was a little much. You know? People need their space," he said, and then added, too brightly, "Yup! I know I sure like mine, these days."

   "You're saying they wanted to get away from Cartman?"

   "No!" Butters shook his head, but the way his cheeks flushed pink said otherwise. "Well... maybe, a little." 

   That, at least, Craig could understand. "I guess I just never imagined Stan settling down in New York. Remember when we were kids? He was always off, like, doing shit in the woods."

   "You mean camping?"

   "Yeah, he was always camping."

   "Mm. Well, this is where Kyle wanted to live," Butters explained. "He used to talk about it all the time. He has family here, I guess, and he likes the big city." He dropped his voice to a whisper, and leaned in closer, though there was nobody else around. "Between you and me, I think it makes him feel _important_."

   "Oh, that makes sense. Imagine Stan and Kyle having to be apart. The universe would implode." Craig said this drily, sarcastically, but Butters made a sound of agreement, as if it were really true, and this made Craig's irritation flare again. "What's even going on there, with those two?" he asked. "Is Stan Marsh finally taking pity on his number one fan?"

   "Craig! How could you?" Butters said, clearly scandalized. He stopped in his tracks, and for a moment Craig was afraid he'd gone too far, that Butters was about to storm off and abandon him. "They're in love!" Butters cried. Then he sniffed, and added, "Why, they're more in love than anybody I ever met."

   "Oh, sure," Craig said, feeling cruel. "That's what you do when you love someone. Shove them back in the closet."

   Butters inhaled, sharply. He was looking at Craig with apprehension, like he'd been asked to explain the entire concept of love to some kind of alien, and was unsure whether he was up to the task.

   "Sometimes... well, sometimes loving someone means that stuff you used to think would be a dealbreaker, it doesn't matter so much anymore. You know?"

   "No," Craig said as they fell back into step, though he did know. "I just don't get it. I don't get them."

   "What's there to get?"

   "I don't get how they can act so fucking smug and downtrodden at the same time," Craig said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. They were turning onto Kyle's street now, and he had the bizarre urge to lower his voice, as though he might be overheard. "They have these perfect careers, this perfect apartment, and now this perfect relationship. And what did they ever do to deserve it? I mean, why are they the ones who get everything?"

   Butters was quiet for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath, and said, "Maybe their lives aren't as perfect as you think, Craig."

   "What?" Craig said, and snorted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

   "Well..." Butters shook his head. "Nothin'."

   They came to a stop in front of Kyle's building, with its intimidating tinted windows and the grand black awning which signalled its importance. They both stood there for a moment, looking at the upper floors. Craig could imagine everyone congregated like they had been the night before, on the sofa and on the floor, watching the next instalment of _Captain America_ , eating prawn crackers and drinking Evians. He imagined sleeping on the floor next to Clyde again, struggling under the weight of everything that he now knew.

   "Do you want to come up?" Craig asked. "I bet Kyle would be happy to see you."

   "Oh, I shouldn't," Butters said. He shook his head, distractedly tracing the toe of his shoe back and forth across the sidewalk. "I think I better stay away from him for a little while. In case Eric thinks something is up, you know."

   "Yeah," Craig said. He looked up at the sky again. It was still so early -- how many hours would he have to sit up with everyone and pretend that nothing was amiss? "Well. Thanks for dinner."

   "You were the one who bought dinner," Butters pointed out. He was sort of rocking where he stood, back and forth, up onto the balls of his feet and then back down again.

   "Technically, Kyle bought dinner," Craig said.

   This made Butters smile. "I figured," he said, "but this was real nice of you, okay? And don't try to tell me that it wasn't."

   Craig had been about to say exactly that. He didn't feel nice -- in fact, he felt vaguely exploitative, but he didn't let on as he said his goodbyes to Butters and then headed inside of Kyle's building. He took the elevator to the second floor, stood in the hallway for ten minutes, and then went back downstairs and out onto the street again. Then, with no particular destination in mind, he began to walk.

   He ended up at a park which was probably not Central, but was populated enough that it felt safe eve at this hour. He sat down on a bench and watched people pass by, tourists and locals and plenty of dogs, wishing he had his camera so that he could record one of the few peaceful moments he'd had lately. It couldn't last, though: when the sky began to grow dark, Craig realised that his options for where he'd be sleeping that night were incredibly limited, and that motivated him to get up and continue walking, up along 14th Street.

   It took a while, but the fourth hotel he tried agreed to take him in for under for under sixty dollars, and in fact made it a generous fifty-five. The room had a creaking-pipe ambience and smelled of fresh paint, but was otherwise fine, and the first thing Craig did was flop-face first on the bed and call Kyle, who answered on the first ring.

   "What the hell, Craig?" was the first thing he said. "Do you know what time it is? I--"

   Craig hung up immediately, and instead composed a text explaining that he would not be returning tonight but would need a ride tomorrow afternoon, owing to the fact that he had no money for cab fare and also had no idea where the venue was. He hit send, then switched off his phone, disinterested in reading Kyle's response. It occurred to him, then, that he could've just as easily texted Bebe or Token or even Clyde, but it was too late now, and he was unsure whether any of them would be more understanding. He supposed it was objectively rude, that he had chosen to spend fifty-five dollars rather than stay the night at Kyle's for free. It wasn't personal, but Kyle would assume it was, and Craig would let him, because it would be easier than explaining. Wasn't that always the way?

   Craig undressed and crawled under the blankets, thinking mostly about Clyde. Wouldn't it be obvious that Craig was avoiding him? Was it even worth the effort? Clyde hadn't put anything close to effort into this whole endeavour, other than what it had taken to get his dick hard and then take a picture of it, which was not a lot, presumably. Craig was too tired to do anything but go around in circles about it. When he drifted off, it was to thoughts of how much he'd relish being on the road again; having his bed back, and a curtain to separate himself from the rest of the world whenever he felt like it.

   Craig called up to request a late check-out the following morning, and stayed in bed long after he had woken up. When he checked his phone he found that he had a text from Kyle, stating simply that he should go and fuck himself, and also one from Wendy, confirming that she had arranged for a driver to take him to the Barclays Center later in the day. He was sure he would face the consequences of his outburst later on, probably in a very public yet roundabout way. Kyle had spent most of his life trying to teach somebody a lesson about something-or-other, crafting these insane passive-aggressive scenarios to force people to learn from their own mistakes. As if he knew the half of it. Craig being in love with some heterosexual, dick-pic sending idiot would make Kyle's day ten times over if he ever found out. His new crusade: Craig Tucker's loneliness, hopelessness, and possible internalized homophobia. God only knew the puppet show he'd construct around _that_.

   It didn't even bear thinking about: Craig did not need the extra stress. He had been plagued with strange nightmares, twinges, though he couldn't remember what they had been about. Time ticked on; Craig wrapped himself in his blanket and watched a Dr Phil rerun on the TV. At noon, he sent Bebe a text asking her to pack him some clean clothes and take them to the venue with her. Then he finally succumbed to the self-pity he'd been trying not to drown in, and read through all the messages he'd gotten the previous night, again and again.

_text me back. call me. Call me_

   Craig hated that he hadn't. He could imagine how thrilling it would've been, how intoxicating, if he'd hit that call button and caught Clyde five seconds away from an orgasm, what he might've said in the moment that would fuel Craig's personal fantasies easily for the next twenty years. A wasted opportunity. So much could have changed -- for better or worse, Craig did not know. He couldn't know. But he could dream.

   He saved the picture for last. He opened it again, feeling breathless in an unpleasant way, almost constricted. Then he pushed the covers back and jerked off to it quickly, and a little angrily. Clyde had been angry when he had taken it. Craig wanted to find that hot somehow, the idea that Clyde was able to translate any intense emotion into arousal, but it didn't feel right. He couldn't even remember the last time Clyde was angry with him, not _seriously_. Not enough to say or do anything about it, at least. Usually it was the opposite. He approved of basically everything that Craig did.

   Except for dating someone else.

   Craig regretted this thought as soon as he had had it. He knew -- had painstakingly learned from years of unrequited feelings -- that getting his hopes up was the most dangerous thing he could do, and also the most useless. It was one thing to daydream and fantasise, but it was another to wish and hope and  _project_  -- projecting was the worst of all, Craig knew, but in the moment it seemed mostly harmless to just  _imagine_  that Clyde was jealous. That he knew exactly what Craig wanted and was tempting him back. That he was making a promise.

   Craig lasted longer this time, but he also felt worse, and when he stepped into the shower afterwards he had the strange and almost overwhelming urge to cry. Craig never cried, and he knew it would not happen now, but it still choked him, and he was forced to distract himself by turning the water cold and washing his hair under it.

   The problem, he thought, was that he had never really been told what to do when the truth would only make things worse. Who would ever benefit from: "Hey, Clyde, stop sending me pictures of your penis, I'm gay and you're hot and it's becoming a problem"? What Craig would protect himself from in the 'false hope' department would be immediately overruled by the irreversible crack down the center of their friendship. Craig didn't even trust that Clyde would be able to look him in the eyes anymore, nevermind undressing in front of him, sharing a bed with him, and enthusiastically performing songs that Craig had transparently written about him.

   He could ask Clyde what he was trying to achieve by sending out pictures of his penis with minimal commentary, he supposed, though that seemed to violate everything that their friendship stood for. They didn't talk about things: they didn't _have_  to talk about things. Anything that couldn't be communicated without words was either too unimportant or too weird to be acknowledged, and Craig had been fine with that, until now. This _was_  weird, but it also  _had_ to be acknowledged.

   Didn't it?

   Which brought Craig to his third option: he could simply do nothing. He could act normal. He could pretend, again, that the picture had simply never reached him, that he had not seen it or guiltily masturbated to it, and also that he hadn't spent the last several years of his life lying awake at night, in his childhood bed, absently touching his headboard, wrapping his hands around the bars of it and imagining how hard he'd be clutching if Clyde ever decided to give him what he wanted, and maybe even to love him back, only to have his heart broken all over again, hearing him rattle someone else's headboard while thinking nothing of Craig, imagining nothing.

  
-v-

  
   Thirty minutes after the conclusion of Moop's show in Brooklyn, everybody was congregating in the parking lot, waiting for Ubers. The night was warm, humidity still lingering from the rainy day it had been. Craig and his band were heading to an afterparty that Kyle was supposedly hosting, though Craig found that hard to believe. He stood with Bebe, Token, and Clyde among a small crowd of random groupies and a handful of the road crew who had been excused early, all checking their phones and talking amongst themselves. Bebe was reapplying her lipstick, using somebody's car window as a mirror. Clyde was checking his hair in the same mirror. Craig looked around absently, unwilling to watch this, because anything to do with Clyde's hair was a personal weakness for him. He noticed the line of touring busses across the parking lot, and the one at the back, with it's unmistakable beat-up paint job. The side door was open, with the steps down, and a roadie was sitting on them, occupied by something in her hands.

   Not hanging around to watch the primping any longer, Craig told Token he'd catch up later, and headed for the bus, under the guise of fetching something he'd forgotten. It was partially true, he thought. All night he'd forgotten the reason he'd recently been subjecting himself to Kyle's every stupid whim: he'd forgotten that he had one thing left to set straight before the saga would be over once and for all.

   "Excuse me," he said, attempting to step over the roadie. She was reading a book, and Craig recognised it as one of the forty-seven billion paperbacks Tweek had felt the need to bring with him from Colorado.

   "Excuse yourself," she said, without looking up. He ignored her, and stepped inside, closing the door behind himself.

   It felt as inviting as ever; heat blasting, lights on, someone's dirty dishes in the sink. "I bought your freedom," Craig announced as he walked into the kitchenette.

   "What?" Tweek said. He was sitting up in Craig's bed with the curtains open, reading a thick hardcover book of his own, which remained propped open on his knees.

   Craig sat down on Bebe's bunk, and began to unlace his shoes, kicking them off one at a time. "Well, bargained for it, I guess," he said. "Kyle said you can stay. Meaning, you can go back to the crew bus and stop sleeping in my bed. Which is all I care about, for the record."

   "Oh! Thank god. I was starting to get kind of stir-crazy in here!" Tweek said. He gathered up armfuls of the blankets and hugged them against his chest, sighing. "I miss my bed," he confessed lowly. "And my clothes."

   "Tell me you haven't been sleeping naked," said Craig, eyeing him.

   "No," Tweek said. "Clyde let me borrow a shirt." And when he swung his legs out from underneath the blanket Craig discovered that this was true, that Tweek was wearing only his underwear and a t-shirt of Clyde's that hung so loosely on him that he apparently felt he did not have to be modest about his choice of attire, or lack of it. Craig went to the kitchenette and made himself a tupperware-box bowl of Lucky Charms while Tweek pulled on his jeans and tried to fix his hair in the bathroom mirror. It was clean, Craig noticed. He wasn't sure how that was possible, unless Tweek had resorted to washing it in the sink.

   Craig ate his cereal while Tweek packed his things. He didn't have much. He had arrived on the bus with a canvas tote bag containing several novels, an empty thermos, reading glasses he never seemed to actually use, his phone, a hairbrush, a roll of Mentos, and a blister pack of Aspirin. Craig had noticed all of these items scattered around the bus, and it took Tweek some time to locate them. When he had, he lingered by the dining table, with his bag on one shoulder, holding onto the dividing wall as if to ground himself.

   "Craig?" he said.

   "What?" Craig replied, with his mouth full of Lucky Charms.

   Tweek took a breath, as though inhaling his courage. "I'm sorry about what I said to you in Michigan. In-- in Starbucks," he said, clearly struggling to look at Craig directly. "You were right, about it being the meth talking. Or, the paranoia?" Tweek looked down at the floorboards, frowning. Then his eyes slid up to meet Craig's again. "I didn't know what I was saying. I didn't really think-- it's just kind of how my brain works? These thoughts come in, and then I can't ever get rid of them, even when I know they're not true. So. I'm sorry."

   "Don't worry about it," Craig said. He poked at a marshmallow with the tip of his spoon, sinking it under the milk, then watching as it resurfaced. "I know you're going through some shit."

   "I think I'm getting better." When Craig looked up, he saw that Tweek had crossed his arms over his chest, rubbing at his elbow with one hand, fidgety. "I haven't seen anything in a while. I mean -- any gnomes or aliens or ghosts or anything."

   "Really?" Craig said. "I thought it would be worse."

   "I don't know what I thought," Tweek said. "I guess I thought being scared all the time would be better than being so tired, and, ugh! I know it's a cliche, but I hated it!" Pointedly, Tweek looked to the window. "It wasn't just 'for the sake of my dick'. I mean, it was like I wasn't even alive!"

   "I didn't realise you heard the dick comment," Craig said. He glanced down at his bowl as he said it, because it was a lie, really. He knew: he just hadn't cared. "I mean, I had the same thing, for a while. That side effect." He could not help looking at Tweek, to gauge his reaction, and found him frowning, brows pinched because, Craig realised, he had no idea what had happened to Craig after graduation. Who would have told him? Why would he have given a shit? Craig supposed that it all went without saying now, and continued, "It actually really sucks, feeling like nothing can excite you anymore. Not just physically, but. Yeah."

   That was exactly how I felt," said Tweek, nodding, his eyes going wide. "Why were you--?" he blurted, and then caught himself. "Well, I mean. Are you okay?"

   "I'm fine," said Craig. "Medication worked out for me eventually, but it took years. I guess it doesn't work out for everyone."

   Tweek nodded again, slowly this time, his expression unreadable, though Craig could tell that something had just occured to him, turning over in his mind. "My mom and dad," he said, after a silence, "spent thousands of dollars every year on my medical bills, but right now? I feel better than I have my whole life." He blinked, and then looked away, clenching his fists. "I don't get it!"

   "Have you talked to them about it?" asked Craig, though he already knew the answer. Tweek had never seemed to talk to his parents about anything, and although this was normal when they were teenagers, Craig had always sensed that it went deeper than that.

   As expected, Tweek shook his head. "I haven't called. I feel like they wouldn't want to know," he said, so matter-of-factly that Craig was at a loss for words. Tweek bit his lip, fidgeting, maybe sensing that he had made Craig uncomfortable. "Uh-- So, what did it take to convince Kyle to let me stay?"

   "You don't want to know," Craig said, and ate his last spoonful of cereal.

   "Oh, god!" said Tweek.

   "Do you want to come to the party?" Craig asked, getting up, because it seemed rude to leave without at least offering. Tweek shook his head so frantically that most of his hair came free from his short ponytail, falling into his eyes like always.

   "Are you kidding? He wouldn't let me!" Tweek said, attempting to push his stray hair back from his face. "I'm going to be laying low for weeks! Stan came by the other day, and he gave me this flyer for some support group!" Tweek added, and ripped a piece of paper from his jeans pocket, folded so small, the size of a fingernail. "I mean, what is that? I can't deal with that!"

   Craig met Tweek's stricken eyes, then, and felt the strange urge to tell him all about Stan and Kyle and the things that most people didn't know about them. Instead, he walked to the kitchenette and dumped his bowl in the sink with all the others. Trying to ignore the fact that Tweek was still watching him, he put on a different pair of shoes and then started rooting around under his bed for a clean shirt.

   "Craig," Tweek piped up, from where he was still standing by the table. "You know, you didn't have to help me."

   "Yes I did," Craig said. "I mean, it's you, dude. I'll always, like-- whatever."

   "Always what?"

   "I'll always feel partly responsible for whatever happens to you," Craig said, finally finding his t-shirt, which was green, and a little dusty now. "Since everybody in town thought I was your rock, or whatever."

   "Oh."

   Craig looked up. "What did you think I was going to say?"

   "Nothing." Tweek stared down at the carpet. "Just. I'm really not trying to suck you back in. I hope you know."

   "I do know." Craig glanced at his shirt, very aware that he was just holding it, waiting for Tweek to leave so he could change. "You seriously should come to this party."

   "I hate parties," Tweek said, without much conviction. "But maybe next time."

   He left without saying anything else, via the side door, and Craig finished getting dressed, spritzed himself with some cologne Token had left in the bathroom, and then looked at his phone and realised there was no way in hell this thing was going to support the Uber app. He asked the roadie to order one for him instead, and to get her refund from Butters later.

   "Unless you want to get a ride with me," he said, leaning against the side of the bus while she tapped at her phone. He wasn't sure what this particular roadie did, but he had noticed her before. Her hair was very long, down past the small of her back, and she always wore it down, like a curtain. "If you're going to Kyle's?"

   "I wasn't invited." She went back to her book, unfolding a dog-eared page corner. "It's pretty, uh, exclusive."

   There was something about the way she said it that Craig didn't like, but he didn't dwell on it.

   The Uber showed up in a timely manner, but the ride seemed to take forever. The driver insisted playing show tunes and chatting about the state of the roads these days, as if Craig should care. Wasn't it obvious he didn't have a car? He showed up almost an hour late to Kyle's, and spent the elevator ride trying to pull himself together, to become the kind of person who showed up late to parties in a way that was cool, rather than embarrassing. And besides: it was only Kyle's house. What had once been an obnoxious display of good fortune was almost boring to Craig now that he had slept on its floor, lounged on its sofa, and watched the way Kyle obsessively cleaned it like it was an artefact to be preserved, a museum rather than a personal dwelling. The elevator dinged, and he stepped out. There was only one door on this landing, Kyle's door: and it was locked.

   Perturbed, Craig stood there for a few seconds, wondering if this was some passive-aggressive method by which he had been uninvited. Then rang the buzzer, and waited. After a minute, it was answered by Kyle, who Craig immediately thought looked like he might be a little drunk.

   "I didn't think you were coming!" Kyle said, opening the door fully. He was wearing a black button down shirt with black jeans, well-dressed for the first time in his life. To Craig's surprise, he was also wearing a smile.

   "Well, can I come in?" Craig asked.

   "Yeah!" Kyle said, and moved out of the way, gesturing Craig inside, like he'd never been to this apartment before. The lights were all turned down low, not dark but warm, and it was deserted. Not even Stan was lingering in the background. Craig glanced to the kitchenette, warmed by the downlighters embedded in the cupboards, shining down on the countertops. Spotlessly clean. "Can I get you a drink or something? A Pepsi?" asked Kyle.

   "A fucking Pepsi?" Craig said.

   "Yeah, a fucking Pepsi," Kyle said.

   "I didn't know I was so late," Craig said, standing on the mat while Kyle closed and locked the front door, humming to himself.

   "Don't be a smartass," Kyle said, turning the key.

   "I'm not being a smartass," Craig said. "Where is everybody? I feel like you lured me here to kill me."

   Kyle rolled his eyes. "They're outside. It's an outdoor party."

   He led Craig towards the downstairs hallway, not to the guest bathroom but to the open rooftop, accessed by a sliding door Craig hadn't noticed before. There was music playing out there, and patio furniture and string lights and a modest number of people gathered in little groups, and Kyle led Craig over to one of several coolers from which he plucked a Pepsi Max and then handed it over, looking so proud about it that Craig could not help being amused.

   "Thanks," he said.

   "You're welcome," Kyle said, and sat down at the nearest table. It was plastic, with a hole for a parasol. Kyle's chair was pastel, creamsicle-striped, orange and white. The one Craig took was baby blue, with spots. He felt like all eyes were on him; he doubted everyone had been greeted like this, given Kyle's full attention.

   Craig glanced around, taking everything in. The city lights for miles in the distance, windows lit up pale white like the strings and lanterns that hung draped across the shallow brick walls which surrounded the terrace. The stars in the sky, just visible. At a different table, Clyde was sitting with Token and two roadies. Stan was in the back corner making strained conversation with some guy who Craig had thought was a groupie back at the venue, though he now realised he was probably a relative of Kyle's, because he had the same curls, and was with an older woman who had to be family as well. Bebe was hanging out on a bench with Wendy and Butters, singing along with the song that was playing. When she saw Craig, she waved, then nudged Butters, who waved as well.

   There were maybe twenty people there in total, and everybody was drinking Sprite or Pepsi or Snapple or something similar, snacking from communal bowls of chips and pretzels, the buzz occasionally punctuated by a siren or a horn blaring from down below on the street, even though it was after midnight. Kyle was sitting back in his chair, staring at Craig for longer than he could possibly need to. He did not quite look like a rock star, luxuriating in the success of his afterparty, this smug little gathering on his multi-million dollar property. He just looked like the same Kyle he'd always been, sitting there with his legs crossed at the ankle, waiting to say something he thought was important, as usual.

   "What?" Craig asked him, cracking open his can.

   "Why do you hate me so much, Craig?" asked Kyle, in a measured tone. "Because I've been trying to figure it out."

   Craig stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why do I  _hate_ you?" he asked. "You've been a dick to me for days. You told me to go fuck myself."

   "Well, you've been a dick to everyone, for years," Kyle replied, matter-of-factly.

   Craig sucked in a breath, unexpectedly wounded. Kyle just sat here, picking at one of his fingernails, not at all ashamed. He was as calm as Craig had ever seen him. That was what stung the most.

   "If you think I'm such a dick, why did you make me go out with Butters?" Craig said, and Kyle turned his gaze coolly on him then. He was still the only person Craig had ever met with green eyes. The thought served as a bitter reminder of the scope of his life: that, and the fact that Kyle apparently still remembered him exactly as he'd been in school. And why wouldn't he? What the hell did he know about what Craig had been doing 'for years'?

   Kyle only shrugged. "Well, apparently that's what he's into."

   "Are you kidding me? Did you seriously invite me to this fucking party just to sit here and compare me to Eric Cartman?"

   "I meant, dicks. It was a joke. Craig, sit down."

   The scrape of Craig's chair against the paving had drawn attention, and he could feel people's eyes on him: his friends, across the room, ready to jump in and intervene if he started throwing punches. Maybe they would even join him. He imagined giving Kyle a black eye at his own prissy little party, and expected the thought to fill him with a dark sort of pleasure, the schoolyard kind, the kind that felt like burning but also like winning. Instead, he just felt guilty, sick with himself. He continued to stand, gripping the back of his chair very tight with both hands.

   "Are you drunk right now?" he asked Kyle, who was looking at him with something like pity, for some reason.

   Kyle scoffed, and rolled his eyes in a way that made Craig think he was lying when he said, "No."

   "Well, whatever. If you couldn't tell, I'm only a dick to people who deserve it," Craig said, sitting down again. It felt like submitting to an ambush, with Kyle staring him down like this, and he was prickling, still clenching his fists. "Admit it: if I wasn't an asshole, you and your friends would walk all over me like you do everyone else."

   "What friends? Cartman?" Kyle said, almost laughing. Craig was glad Stan wasn't here to laugh as well, as he inevitably would have. "He's not my friend, dude."

   "Just because you didn't invite him to one party doesn't mean he isn't your friend," Craig said. He was starting to feel a little self-conscious, aware he was being incredibly rude. But then, Kyle had asked. "I mean, you do whatever he wants. You always have."

   "Well, maybe it's not that simple."

   "Sure," Craig said. He tried to avert his eyes, but Kyle continued to stare at him.

   "I always liked that about you," he said. "You were as bad as him. But you still hated him."

   "No way. I was nothing like him," Craig said, disgusted by the notion. He had been cruel and sometimes violent, it was true -- but he was not Cartman. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I mean, at least I was nice to  _my_ boyfriend. For a while."

   "I wouldn't use the word 'boyfriend'," Kyle said, dismissing this notion with a wave. "What you saw was the extent of it. They only fucked before shows. And, I mean, they didn't even fuck. It was just, you know. The mouth stuff."

   "Mouth stuff," Craig repeated.

   "Shut up." Kyle went pink, and shifted in his chair. After an awkward beat, he added, "Thanks for being cool about it, though, anyway."

   Craig raised his eyebrows: he was pretty sure he'd been the opposite of cool about it.

   "About what?"

   "You kind of walked into the gay drama capital of the universe. I actually think you're taking it pretty well."

   "I thought I was the gay drama capital of the universe," Craig said. It won him a half-smile, though Kyle thankfully didn't ask him to elaborate. Probably he was thinking of Tweek.

   "Well," Kyle said, shrugging again. "You know what, though? I've been wanting to tell you about me and Stan for years."

   "Me?" Craig said. "Why?"

   "I don't know. I thought you would think it was funny," Kyle said. "Because you came out so early, with Tweek and everything, and the whole time I was holding out for the quarterback of the football team. I knew you'd roll your eyes and be like, 'same old Kyle bullcrap, he has to make everything  _so_ complicated...'"

   "I don't sound like that," Craig said, objecting to Kyle's dour impression.

   "Yes you do, dude," Kyle said. "I just knew you would think I was an idiot. And you would be right."

   "What do you mean?" Craig asked. He thought a lot of things about Kyle, but rarely that he was an idiot.

   "Because you seem like the type who hates it when people, like, lust after straight guys," Kyle explained. "Even though Stan turned out not to be a straight guy. But I didn't know. I was kind of ready to be miserable about it for the rest of my life."

   "Yeah," Craig agreed. "I do hate that."

   "Yeah," Kyle said, "I figured. Because it's illogical, or whatever." 

   The music came to an abrupt halt, then started again a moment later, a different song. Pink Floyd -- one of Craig's favourites. Kyle whipped around like this was an emergency of some kind, and Craig followed his gaze and saw Clyde, with his own iPhone plugged into the speaker now, his back to them, fiddling with something. Kyle heaved a breath, and seemed to be internally debating whether he was going to get up and storm over there. Then he caught Craig's eye.

   "I like this song," Craig said, shifting in his seat. "It's from 'Dark Side of the Moon'."

   "Pretentious," Kyle said.

   "Classic," Craig corrected, and Kyle laughed.

   "You sound like Stan," he said. Craig gave him a look, but let it slide. He imagined this was how most conversations with Kyle went, once somebody found out his little secret. Probably he had spent his entire life struggling not to gush about how great Stan was to anybody who would listen. It was sad, Craig thought, though also sort of endearing.

   "Look at us," Craig commented, mildly. "Sitting here."

   "Yeah. I missed it." Kyle shrugged, and looked away. "Not, like-- whatever. It bothered me. Your antagonism," he said, at Craig's questioning look. "It's been bothering me for a while."

   Craig acknowledged this statement with a single nod, but then stalled by taking a long drink from his can of Pepsi, wondering if it was even worth arguing his case. He hadn't been antagonistic: he'd been defensive. Kyle had been antagonistic. He'd tried to send Tweek home. He must have known which side Craig would take, how angry he would be to see Tweek kicked while he was down. He wanted to explain all of this to Kyle, as well as to call him a fucking hypocrite of the highest order, but instead he settled on, "I didn't think you would care."

   Kyle's mouth dropped open for a second, just a little. His forehead creased while he struggled for words.

   "Well-- yeah. Of course I did, Craig. What even?"

   Craig shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "I mean. Why would you?"

   "Because, we used to be friends."

   "We weren't friends."

   "Yes we were!" Kyle said, as if this was a debate he could possibly win. "Remember when we used to go to all the games together? Uh, post-Tweek?"

   "No," Craig said, though he did; most of the time, Kyle was his sole companion to football games, and they sat shivering and quite bored, not exactly together, but next to each other. He had no real fondness for those memories, or at least, not Kyle's presence in them. He was more alarmed by Kyle's name for that time period. Was that how other people saw his life? Most of his adolescence and entire adulthood, 'post-Tweek'?

   "Oh, that is such crap!" Kyle snapped, finally losing his patience. "How can you not remember? We went to every single game! That was like, the gayest shit I've ever done!"

   "I really doubt that's the gayest shit you've  _ever_ done," Craig said, getting up. He could already see Stan approaching, sensing Kyle's change in mood from across the terrace, and he wanted no part in whatever was going to happen next. He went back into the loft, under the guise of having to use the bathroom, taking his drink with him. Pepsi Max -- incredible.

   The bathroom was unoccupied, thankfully, and closing the door behind himself felt like sealing a vacuum. He set the can down on the counter while he washed his face, which did nothing but make his skin pink. Even with the splash of the water, he couldn't fathom why Kyle would care one way or the other how Craig felt about him on a personal level. Or, for that matter, why he cared if Craig remembered the pathetic way they used to spend their Friday nights. Craig actively tried  _not_  to remember high school, and especially all the times when he had let his feelings for Clyde affect his actual behaviour -- in this case his weekly _schedule_ , when he turned up in the freezing cold or blazing heat to watch tryouts and home games and claimed to be supporting his friends on the team, though he was really only there for one. Kyle, apparently, didn't feel the same ache Craig did, the same futility. And why would he? It hadn't been futile for him. Probably it was something he and Stan laughed about it now: how sweet it was. How  _gay_ it was.

   Clyde would never be capable of such a thing, Craig was sure. He hadn't even expressed much interest in Craig's sexual orientation until a week ago. And even then, Craig had been the one to bring it up. Hadn't he? He couldn't remember. That whole conversation had been reduced to a blur of confused phrases and phantom emotions in Craig's mind, overwritten by the fatal combination of his heart-wrenching longing and the orgasm he'd had, thanks to Clyde.

   Clyde, who was still blissfully ignorant: who had no idea he'd managed to Craig's insides to jelly about six times in one night. He had been awfully interested, Craig recalled, in whether or not Craig was still a virgin. Not that it meant anything, Craig thought as he dried his face: Clyde was just obsessed with sex, in general. He seemed to think about it all the time. Read about it. Talk about it. At home, he would never shut the fuck up about it when they were alone together and he was a little bit drunk. Always, "I wish I was still getting it. I miss it. There's nothing like it". Then he'd look up at Craig from where he was splayed on the floor, and frown as though he was waiting for something. Sympathy, maybe, or commiseration. Craig never gave him much of either. His own sexual frustration was inextricably tied to his feelings for Clyde, and besides: it was not in his nature to discuss sex as anything more than a joke. A concept. He could be crude, but he was not open. Not bold.

   Clyde was bold, though. And he had been so turned on in that bar bathroom. It made Craig dizzy to think of it, though it also didn't really mean anything. Clyde was just the kind of person who'd find himself horny in the bathroom stalls of random bars at three o'clock in the morning. Craig didn't exactly know this for a fact, but it seemed true. Clyde was impulsive. He was hedonistic. He was really fucking forthcoming when it came to his dick. Craig wanted to laugh. He was so far the opposite -- so reserved, so reluctant, so afraid of the rejection he'd resigned himself to years ago, when he'd dumped Tweek and found himself unable to imagine that anyone else in the world would ever want him, because what were the odds? A million to one? A billion? Less?

   Craig splashed his face with water again, cold this time. After drying off, he left the bathroom and noticed Stan and Kyle in the kitchen, speaking quietly and totally oblivious to his presence. Kyle was clearly complaining about something, and Stan was eating from a bag of mini Pretzels and wearing an expression of deep sympathy as he did. Craig slipped past without them noticing, and he surveyed the scene outside from the doorway, feeling only a little out of place. Clyde was trying to shotgun a Sprite for the amusement of a group of cheering roadies -- Craig wanted nothing to do with him right now. Wendy and Butters were sitting at a table and having a heated-looking debate about something on Wendy's phone. Bebe was on the same bench, but now tucked in the corner with a roadie, sitting in his lap and kissing him with abandon. The guy with the curls was next to them, occasionally casting worried glances, twisting his hands in his lap like he thought he might catch something from them. He was having a mild-looking conversation with Token, who was on his other side.

   Craig approached them and sat down beside Token, unsure what to say, but fortunately he was spared by Kyle's cousin meeting his eyes through his giant, magnified lenses.

   "Oh, hello! My name is Kyle, I'm Kyle's cousin," he said, in a nasal sort of voice that made Craig immediately uncomfortable, "but I don't think you should shake my hand because I had the flu two weeks ago and it could still be contagious."

   "This is Craig," Token said, politely, and it was a struggle for Craig not to extend his hand in greeting. Cousin Kyle, he noticed, was sitting on his own, awkwardly.

   "Oh, well, Craig-- we were just having a discussion about property investment." Cousin Kyle sniffed then, and it sounded almost painful. Despite his excuses about the flu, Craig got the feeling he sounded this congested all the time. "Tell me: what are your thoughts on the recent legislation affecting the private sector and the impact on gross revenue? Because personally,  _I_  am of the opinion that..."

   Craig zoned out completely, and felt content to just sit there and drink his Pepsi, vaguely nodding along when Cousin Kyle asked him something, or Token chimed in with an opinion of his own. Craig had no idea how much he really knew about the subject, and how much he was bullshitting: he had been an Econ major, but he was also smart enough to seem like he knew what he was talking about at all times, even when he didn't. Craig hoped he never had to know things about property investment legislation. That was the other thing about Token: he had been a grown-up since he was about six years old. Some people were like that. People like Kyle, both the cousin and the original. Not people like Craig. Even as a child, he had always been out of his depth. Just when he thought he had a handle on one thing, something else would come along and knock him off course.

   Pink Floyd was playing again; a pretty song with two guitar tracks. It was Craig's favourite, and it also made his heart ache. It wasn't a song for parties. It was for laying awake in bed in the middle of the night, lonely but thinking of someone, lost in your head but feeling every note down to your toes. Clyde should've known that. He knew the band inside out. But he missed things. That was Clyde's problem, Craig thought: missing things.

   And Craig's problem was that even when he wanted things to be missed, to go unnoticed and unremarked upon, it still hurt a little when it happened.

   He tried to distract himself by people-watching, but it was hard to do so without just outright staring at Clyde. His eyes kept wandering. Clyde, being applauded and pat on the back while he belched into his hand, looking nauseous. Clyde, shrugging his jacket off and tying it around his pudgy waist which Craig loved so much. Clyde, wandering back over to the speakers to change the track again. Not Pink Floyd this time; a song Craig didn't know, something more upbeat.

   Craig closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, giving up fully on the presence of listening to Cousin Kyle's rambling, wondering if he should get out his camera and record something. He had lost interest in the tour diary lately, mostly because he could not imagine himself wanting to reminisce about this particular part of the trip. Everything except the show itself had been painful at best: wrangling Tweek, playing therapist to Butters, having his feelings toyed with by Clyde. Then there was this party. Craig sighed. Already, he wished he was back at Pacific Park: he wished they'd had more than a thirty-minute set, and that the adrenaline didn't wear off so quickly afterwards. He wished he did not have to crash back down to earth every single time.

   Stan and Kyle resurfaced a little while later, in better spirits. Judging by the look on Kyle's face, Craig was sure they'd managed to steal a few kisses while they were inside. It was truly a nauseating thought. They went off to talk to Clyde, who was now in conversation with Kyle's aunt, for some reason. Butters was slow-dancing with Wendy to some song from Clyde's phone, which was still plugged in. Two of the roadies were leaving early without saying goodbye, checking furtively over their shoulders to see if Kyle was looking their way.

   "...which is why I think investing in Pittsburgh is really just a waste of time right now," Cousin Kyle said, as though this was a real tragedy. Then he glanced at his watch. "Oh, would you look at that, I promised my aunt Sheila we'd call her on FaceTime tonight and it's already almost one in the morning, oh, I hope she's still awake. Hey- Kyle," he said, getting up and shuffling across the terrace. Craig watched him go.

   "I don't know what was worse," Token said, leaning back against the wall, where the bricks snagged at the back of his shirt. "Him, or Clyde having palpitations about changing the goddamn music." His eyes slid to where Clyde was now propping himself up against the balcony wall by the elbow, slumped more than standing, still drunk from the show and clearly trying to act like wasn't. "You were right. He's been seriously off."

   "You think so?" Craig asked. He took a sip of his drink, trying to seem unfazed. It was lukewarm, worse than ever.

   "Uh, yeah. And so have you," Token said. He looked Craig over as though expecting an explanation, and when Craig didn't give him one, he asked instead, "Why were you talking to Kyle?"

   "Apparently, he wants to be friends," Craig said. He glanced to the man in question, who looked like he was trying and failing to shake his cousin off, growing irritated.

   "Everybody's on crack tonight," Token said, shaking his head.

   "Don't let Kyle hear you saying that."

   "Don't even get me started," said Token. He was drinking Arizona tea -- Craig had no idea where it had come from. "I know a ton of people who are in New York for the summer. They would've killed to be here if it wasn't like..." he gestured after Cousin Kyle with his can. "...This."

   "Yale graduates aren't cool," Craig said.

   "Oh, excuse me," Token said. "And who's better? People at that Vermont school you used to talk about?"

   Craig cringed at the thought. "Can you imagine? I would've hated it there."

   "I think you would've fit in," said Token, raising his eyebrows. "You're so artistic."

   "You can just say 'weird', if you mean weird."

   "You play the ukulele. I'm sure everyone would've loved you."

   "Who doesn't play the fucking ukulele?" Craig said, unable to keep a straight face. He had one at home, an electro-acoustic concert build, which had cost him a hundred and seventy dollars, and had spent the last several years gathering dust on a stand in the basement.

   The party started to die down at around two in the morning, after Cousin Kyle had left with his mother and Bebe had disappeared to the guest bedroom with her roadie conquest. Clyde had disappeared inside as well, possibly locked in the bathroom and sending pictures of his penis to everyone in his contacts. Butters had fallen asleep on a bench, snoring gently while Stan, sitting on one of the tacky lawn chairs now, strummed songs on his acoustic guitar, humming along vaguely but unwilling to sing.

   Kyle was standing by himself, leaning against the low brick wall, his second or third Evian resting by his elbow, looking on with barely concealed adoration. Craig went over to stand with him, feeling like he should.

   "At least it's not 'Wonderwall'," Craig said, and Kyle managed a smirk.

   "I wish he wasn't so shy about singing," he said. "He's actually pretty good."

   "Well, you would think so."

   Stan changed songs suddenly, picking up something a little faster, something which made his fingers slide on the strings when he moved his hand down the neck. He was watching the frets like a bad performer. Like he wasn't even aware he had an audience.

   "He sings in the shower," Kyle said, sounding kind of far away. "Every morning. But not when we're on tour."

   Craig just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "How did you guys get together?" he asked instead, fairly sure this was a normal thing that people said.

   "How did we get _together_?" Kyle repeated, half-incredulous. As if it was the first time anyone had asked, or maybe just asked politely. He snorted a laugh, checking out his fingernails. "Uh, we got drunk and he took my virginity on prom night. That's how we got together."

   "On prom night?" Craig repeated. "In high school?"

   "Yup."

   "Didn't Stan go to prom with Wendy?"

   "Yup."

   "Oh," Craig said. "Well, that's romantic."

   "It was," Kyle said, oddly soberly. He was watching Stan play again, eyeing his calloused fingertips, his clean fingernails. "He is." Kyle sighed, then turned away, leaning his elbows on the rough edge of the wall, concrete. "Craig, can I tell you something?"

   "What?"

   Kyle stared out at the cityscape for what felt like minutes, though it could only have been seconds before sucked in a deep breath and said, "I think I'm going to ask him to marry me."

   "Wow," Craig said.

   "I'm being serious," Kyle said, as though trying to coax Craig into his same, sombre mood. "Sometimes I think I'll lose him if I don't, like, tether him somehow."

   "That would be the worst."

   "Craig!" Kyle said. "God, I knew you wouldn't understand! You're such a callous asshole. You don't even think about what other people are going through!"

   "Tell me about it," Craig said, meaning to agree.

   "I need a fucking drink before I can even think about it," Kyle said. "Forget telling you."

   Craig eyed him. "I thought you didn't drink anymore."

   "I don't. I couldn't," Kyle said, looking at the ground. "And I like it that way. I told those roadies that if I caught any of them doing cocaine in my bathroom, I'd shove my fist so far up their ass I'd break their nose." He frowned. "I meant to say foot, but, you know. The heart wants."

   Craig didn't know what to say to that. All he could think of, in the moment, was, "I like how you call it 'cocaine'."

   "What else should I call it?"

   "I don't know. Not that." Craig shrugged. "Whatever they call it in LA."

   "Ha. Well, guess what?" Kyle said. "I don't live there anymore."

   "I know you don't," Craig said. "It sounds like a cesspool."

   Kyle laughed, unexpectedly. "Uh, yeah, it was. Have you been?"

   "No, but Butters made it sound like it's crawling with weirdos."

   "Well, it is," Kyle said, his shoulders relaxing visibly. Probably, Craig thought, because the spotlight was on somebody else's problems now. "God knows why he still lives out there. He was happier in Florida."

   "Really?" asked Craig. He couldn't remember Butters saying anything about his time there, except that it was hot.

   "Scared of the alligators, but, yeah. Of course he was. He was living with Kenny and ninety half-naked women." Kyle looked disgusted by the notion, yet he said, "He doesn't know what's good for him."

   "I'm surprised you think living with Kenny was good for him," Craig said, "considering."

   "Yeah, well. Kenny doesn't do anything in the house, with Karen around. And Butters knows his limits. When it comes to narcotics, anyway."

   "But you think Stan doesn't?"

   "Please!" Kyle scoffed -- there was no other word for the sound, and the way it made Craig feel stupid for asking. "I  _know_ he doesn't. After Coachella, I'm never letting him out of my sight again." He paused, then glanced at Craig and sighed. "God. I actually sound like a crazy person. All this over a broken ankle, right?"

   "Yeah," Craig said, dumbly. None of his bookmarked  _Moop_  articles had mentioned whatever Kyle was talking about. A shadow of confusion and hurt crossed Kyle's face, and Craig caught himself just in time. "I mean, no. I get it. It's not just a broken ankle."

   "Right. Exactly."

   A slightly awkward silence fell, and Kyle took a drink from his water bottle. Craig wanted to ask, but doubted Kyle would appreciate it if he did. It hardly sounded like a big deal to Craig that Stan had once broken his ankle while drunk at a festival. Perhaps he had broken someone else's ankle instead -- or perhaps he hadn't been drunk. Craig thought of Tweek and that flyer, Stan's sympathy, Kyle's militant overreaction. How had he missed so much? Despite combing through _Pitchfork_  and _People_ religiously for the past four years, Craig was beginning to realise he didn't know a damn thing about Stan Marsh.

   Stan, for his part, was still picking away at his guitar, oblivious to the fact that he was being discussed. When was he not oblivious? And still, Craig supposed he could  understand what Kyle saw in him. Stan was attractive, if you liked men who were scruffy and stylishly unkempt; he was tall. It was easy to imagine them fucked-up on prom night, Kyle melting, flattered by the attention. Quarterback of the football team. Craig had often thought of himself as a tragic victim of cliches and stereotypes, but Stan and Kyle were on a whole other level.

   "He keeps talking about leaving," Kyle said, abruptly.

   "Leaving what?" Craig said. "You?"

   "No, not me. The band." Kyle rolled his eyes. "We had this whole plan to bail after the first album, but then everything went to shit."

   "How has anything gone to shit?" Craig said. "You're constantly on the radio. You're selling out arenas."

   "Well," said Kyle, coolly, "You know what? It turns out it's pretty expensive to convince every gossip magazine in the country not to run a piece on a minor celebrity having a breakdown in front of thousands of people at a music festival. That, and the rehab. Not that I'm complaining," he added, too late to be at all convincing.

   "If you're trying to tell me you're broke, I'm not buying it."

   Kyle was stunned. "What?"

   "You have this place." Craig gestured towards the door. "You could sell it."

   "Are you kidding?"

   "No. You'd get, like. At least a million dollars," he said, guessing. By the look on Kyle's face, Craig could tell it would be a lot more than a million dollars. "Then you could do whatever you want."

   Kyle was unimpressed. "Such as?"

   "I don't know. Move to Canada and become a folk duo. Play coffee shops. Get married, or whatever."

   Kyle snorted. "Okay. Thanks for the advice."

   "Because that would be so much worse than what you're doing now," Craig said, crossing his arms. "Paying off journalists and being Cartman's bitch."

   "I'm not his bitch," Kyle said, flushing pink.

   "I'm just saying," Craig said, "I didn't think you were the type to be in it just for the money."

   "Well, I have no idea what gave you that impression," said Kyle, shortly, "because money is pretty important to us grown-ups, Craig."

   "But you're going to leave eventually."

   "We have plans," said Kyle, vaguely. "We do other things."

   "Like what?"

   "Well, Stan's been working on this secular alternative to the twelve-step program, if you must know," Kyle said, "and that takes up a lot of his time."

   "Really?"

   "Yes," said Kyle. "It's a support group called 'Alcoholics And Addicts Anonymous'. Quadruple-A for short."

   "That's a pretty big deal," Craig said, and Kyle nodded, almost gravely. "Good luck getting the trademark."

   "Yeah, thanks," Kyle said.

   The screen door clattered; Clyde's uncertain return to the terrace drew all eyes to him, including Craig's. He stood there in the doorway, looking lost for a few seconds until he noticed Stan and approached him with a strange, nervous determination.

   "I'm taking the couch tonight," Craig said. He kept eyeing Clyde, who was now sitting next to Stan, asking him something in an undertone, gesturing. "I can't sleep on your floor."

   Stan de-tangled himself from his guitar strap, and handed it over to Clyde, who took it cautiously, like it was a newborn child. Craig didn't even want to imagine how expensive that guitar must have been, probably custom-made and tweaked to all hell, to have the privilege of being the one Stan kept at home, protected from all the potential trauma of touring.

   Kyle sighed. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I feel like I kind of took you hostage. It must've been a crappy trip for you." He looked to Craig, expectant; Craig only shrugged, prompting Kyle to continue: "So I was thinking... maybe we could all go to Times Square tomorrow morning. Everybody," he added, with weight. "Including Tweek."

   "And Kenny?" Craig asked.

   "Well, no," Kyle said, crossing his arms. "But he wont care, anyway. He's been there a thousand times."

   Everybody was watching Clyde now, Craig noticed -- except for Butters, who was still asleep. Stan was looking on with an odd kind of trepidation, focusing on Clyde's left hand as though he expected to have to intervene and remind him where to place his fingers. He didn't, of course. Clyde made it look easy, strumming something delicate, a little song he'd written months ago and liked to play during soundchecks, though nobody had managed to come up with lyrics yet.

   When Clyde finished his song, everyone was kind enough to clap. The noise woke Butters with a start, and after that, people started filing back downstairs and saying their goodbyes to Kyle at the door, as though it had been an intentional finale. Craig ignored these proceedings and took a spare duvet and pillow from the linen cupboard, setting up the couch while Token and Clyde helped Stan bring in the coolers, glasses, and other random paraphernalia that wouldn't do well on the terrace overnight.

   "Hey."

   Craig startled -- Clyde was standing behind the couch, just hovering, not sitting down. He had his hands in his jacket pockets, his expression unreadable as his eyes swept over the nest of duvet and pillows that Craig was sitting in the middle of.

   "Hey," Craig said back.

   Clyde gestured towards the bedding. "What's with this?" he asked.

   "I'm sleeping here."

   "You are?"

   "Yeah."

   "Well," Clyde said. "Then I guess I'll be on the floor. With Token."

   Craig felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it aside. "I'll see you in the morning," he said. "We're going to Times Square."

   "Cool," said Clyde. 

   When he turned to leave, Craig was struck with an idea.

   "Can I borrow your phone to text Ruby tomorrow?" he asked. "I'm not getting her messages, for some reason."

   "What?" Clyde asked, and then he did turn around. He did not look relieved, like Craig had expected -- it was not a weight off his shoulders. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then Token appeared from the hallway, grumbling over the fact that Craig had had the foresight to claim the couch, and nothing more was said. Token and Clyde went to bed, and Kyle returned from getting rid of his guests and started to turn out the lights in the kitchen. Then he wiped down the counters and generally just screwed around until Stan came in from the terrace with two full trash bags and his guitar, looking exhausted enough to pass out.

   "Goodnight," Craig said, watching them ascend the stairs, feeling a twinge of something. Stan only mumbled a response, but Kyle stopped and looked down at him, frowning.

   "If you can't sleep--"

   "I'll be fine," Craig interrupted, then instantly regretted it. He had no idea what Kyle would've said, and was curious, but it was already over, and he could hear them up in the loft, kicking off their shoes and muttering to each other as they got ready for bed.

   Craig decided to do the same. Stan and Kyle wouldn't be able to see him unless they were standing at the railing, so he didn't feel too shy about taking off his jeans and his shirt, and then throwing the half of the duvet that he wasn't lying on over the back of the couch so that it did not cover him, but could easily be accessed if he needed it. It was still chilly in the apartment, but pleasantly so. It had been a long day, and Craig was still sore from the show.

   He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but every time he started to drift, he found himself trapped, going in anxious circles. He tossed and turned, and as the minutes wore on, the apartment became less quiet. Token and Clyde were awake in the other room, arguing in whispers. Stan and Kyle were awake too, speaking only occasionally, and Craig found himself more interested in trying to overhear their conversation only because the sporadic nature of it made him curious. He kept hearing _dude_ , and  _shh,_ and at one point he heard Kyle very distinctly say, _Craig's down there!_ before collapsing into a fit of barely suppressed laughter, muffled perhaps by a pillow.

   They could've been fucking -- Craig had no idea, and didn't want to consider the possibility. He could do nothing but lie there, staring at the ceiling two stories up, waiting for sleep to take him. He flung his forearm over his eyes, then changed his mind and tried curling up, foetal, the way Clyde slept. The door to the guest bedroom opened and closed - Stan and Kyle continued, oblivious. Footsteps padded behind the sofa, and Craig went still. The terrace door slid open a moment later, and did not close.

   The more he tried to find sleep, the more it escaped him. Eventually, after what felt like hours but had surely only been about twenty minutes or so, he got up, pulled his clothes back on, and went to the kitchen for a drink. He found himself standing there, arms slack by his sides, his bare feet on the tiles, suddenly aware that Stan and Kyle were still talking, and any noise he made would draw their attention. He went still, and listened:

   "Dude, she was trying," Stan was saying, keeping his voice down. "Come on."

   "Trying! It was like she was going to cry if somebody looked at her the wrong way." Kyle sounded wide awake, more exuberant than he'd been for most of the party. "I thought she would get along so well with my cousin. But I guess she was repelled by his acceptance of capitalism."

   Of course, Craig thought to himself as he opened a cupboard and reached for a glass. They weren't having sex. They were just talking shit about everybody at the party.

   "Token loved him, though," Stan pointed out. "Who would've guessed?"

   "'Loved' may be a strong word," Kyle said. "'Tolerated' is more like it."

   Craig was surprised to find milk in the fridge, and poured it as quietly as he could. Stan and Kyle had gone silent, maybe hearing him, but then Stan piped up, "What would your cousin say? If he knew?"

   Kyle snorted. "I don't fucking know," he said. "He'd probably just go straight to my mom about it."

  "Oh, God. The wrath of Sheila." They laughed together, and Craig could imagine why: Kyle's mother had always seemed sort of overly involved with his life, the type to enact the five stages of grief when she discovered that her child had kept something from her. "I'm still not over Craig," Stan said, and Craig tensed when he heard his own name, caught off guard. "He was so _pissed_. It was like we'd slapped him or something. Did you think he'd be that pissed?"

   Craig leaned back against the counter, drinking his milk and listening hard.

   "I think he's been vaguely pissed since I came out," said Kyle. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't."

   "Seriously?" Stan asked. "Because of _Craig_?"

   "No, not because of Craig, obviously," Kyle said, and Craig heard Stan sigh, perhaps from relief, or because he knew what was coming next. "Just, the whole thing. If I wasn't out then we could just be two straight guys sharing an apartment, and no-one would even care."

   "Well, we'll never be two straight guys sharing an apartment," Stan said, which seemed redundant to Craig until it was followed by a faint wet sound, and then another. Craig grimaced, staring into the sink. What had Stan and Kyle even been thinking, inviting them here? They could've had the loft to themselves for days, cooking tempeh and gossiping with abandon, kissing all over the place. Craig hadn't seen them kiss once. Now he was hearing it, and they were not stopping. He finished the glass of milk, and as he was setting it down on the counter he heard a gasp from above, Kyle saying " _Stan_ " with no hint of laughter this time, and without thinking very hard about it Craig left the room and went to the hallway, through the screen door, and out onto the terrace.

   "Stan and Kyle?" came Bebe's voice. She was lounging on one of the flat, stone benches, perched on the edge of it with her knees drawn up and her arms around them. She wearing her pyjamas, and a hesitant smile.

   "How'd you guess?" Craig asked her, approaching. He felt conscious of the fact that he was barefoot and hadn't bothered to button his jeans, but all the lights were out now, the lanterns taken down, and they were cast only in the glow from the city itself; the apartments across the way and all around, and the moon.

   "I heard them going at it the other night," said Bebe, following Craig with her eyes as he sat down beside her. "They think they're quiet."

   "I'm sick of listening to other people fuck," Craig said, because it felt okay to admit this, in the dark. "I hate this tour."

   "I didn't know you were hating it," Bebe said, after a long pause.

   "I don't know." There was a draft up here; Craig pulled his legs up too, keeping warm. "Do you ever think about what we'd be doing if it wasn't this?"

   "You really want to know?" she asked, and Craig nodded. She pursed her lips for a moment, thinking. "Well, I think we'd be in South Park, standing in your garage and arguing about why we can never get booked anywhere more than once. I'd be spending most of my time teaching 'Chopsticks' to kids who couldn't care less about music, and you'd be shilling orthopaedic Crocs to senior citizens. Am I close?"

   "Probably," Craig said. Then he sighed. "It's not that I hate it," he said. "It's just a lot harder to ignore my problems when we're living like this. I have too much time to think, and most things don't seem real." He paused, thinking. "Only a few things seem real."

   "Fucking amen," Bebe said. She tilted her head back, and closed her eyes, exhaling deeply. Craig didn't know what she could possibly be thinking about -- what stressed her? Work? Bebe took on everything, Craig knew, because she believed she was the only person capable of getting things right. Craig had the opposite opinion of himself, and had spent most of his life inadvertently compiling evidence to defend this stance.

   "I have to tell you something," Craig said, because it was easier when she wasn't watching him.

   "What?" Bebe said. For some reason she smiled, as though nothing that Craig said could possibly faze her.

   "Well." Craig took a breath. "It's about Clyde."

   Bebe cracked open one eye, and glanced over. "What about him?"

   "I think he's, like, bi-curious or something. About me." It came out all at once, and by the time Craig had finished his sentence he expected Bebe to be sitting up, alert and listening, but she didn't move. "I didn't want to talk to you about it. But now I think you're the only person I  _can_ talk to about it."

   "Huh," Bebe said. "Why do you think he's bi-curious?"

   "He keeps sending me pictures of his dick."

   To Craig's surprise, Bebe actually laughed. "Oh my god. He's such a total fuckboy."

   "I know I should be grossed out, but." Craig shrugged. "I guess I'm into it." 

   "Damn," said Bebe. "Well, if he was going to like a guy, it figures it would be you."

   "How does  _that_ make sense?"

   "It just does," Bebe said. And, on reflection, Craig supposed it did. If nothing else, he was the person Clyde hung out with the most by far: he was there, he was available. Perhaps that was all he had going for him, but it was something. Clyde was apparently no stranger to sleeping with someone just because they were there, and because they had asked. He was also, Craig recalled, no stranger to crying after sex with women.

   "Do you think..." Craig said, "I mean-- do you think he's gay?"

   "No," Bebe said, clearly amused by the notion. "But, there were signs. That he was interested in men, I mean. I'm not surprised."

   "Signs?" Craig asked. He had noticed no such thing. "What signs?"

   "If he wants you to know, he'll tell you."

   Craig sighed -- he should have known. Bebe and Clyde had always been so private about their relationship, so cryptic, and over the years that had driven Craig more insane than if he'd had to hear every detail of it. Their secrecy served as a testament to how special it had been, and how special it still was after all these years. At least, Craig assumed as much. If it had been anyone but Bebe and Clyde, Craig might have thought they were just embarrassed.

   "Are you pissed off now?" Craig had to ask.

   "What? I'm not pissed off at all," Bebe said, raising her eyebrows. "Why do you think I'm pissed off? Do I have resting bitch face or something?"

   "No, just..." Craig trailed off, staring nothing: a patio table, a terracotta planter. "He's your ex. You were, like, in love with him or whatever. I don't want to..."

   "I wasn't in love with him," said Bebe. "We weren't in love."

   "What?"

   Bebe tilted her head. "Did he tell you we were?"

   "It just seemed like it," Craig said. "Since you dated for a year."

   "Well..." she shrugged. "I guess at the time I thought we were. I thought liking all the same dumb stuff was what love was. And it turned out that most of the dumb stuff we both liked was, like, making out and having sex. But that's not the kind of thing that can last."

   "Yeah."

   "It's too bad," she said. "Nobody gets me like Clyde. He was so attentive, in his way. But then, he still is."

   "I don't want things to get super weird," Craig said, quickly, though it was really too late to prevent things from getting weird, and Bebe seemed to agree, because she raised her eyebrows slightly. "It's not that I don't like drama. But I don't like being in the middle of it."

   "When is there ever drama with us?" Bebe said, frowning. She was silent for a moment, hugging her legs closer to herself, resting her chin on them. "I think that people are scared of their friends dating their exes because it's like... the ex is stealing that person. And your friend, who's supposed to be on your side, suddenly can't take sides, or they're on the ex's side. But to me, it doesn't matter if you're on the his side, because we're all on the same side. It's always going to be the four of us."

   "Against who?"

   "The world," said Bebe, with a shrug. "Or Moop."

   "They're, like, your best friends."

   Playfully, Bebe smacked his arm. "I'm networking," she said. "But, they're alright."

   Craig sat back, mulling that over. All things considered, he supposed they were.

   "Can I ask you something?" he said, after a silence.

   "Sure," Bebe said.

   "Is Clyde good in bed?"  

   The question made Bebe laugh -- Craig was unsure whether this was a good sign or not. "Jesus, I don't know. Don't you think it's a little unfair to judge by the standard he set when we were like, sixteen years old?"

   "You think he's improved since then?"

   "Point taken," Bebe said. "I guess it just depends what you like."

   "That is such a non-answer."

   "It was a loaded question." Thoughtfully, she added, "He's enthusiastic. He likes to please."

   "Oh." Craig was silent for several seconds while that information sank in. "Well, fuck."

   "Contain yourself, young Tucker," Bebe said, mock-sagely, unfolding her legs and crossing them in front of her. "How long have you been into him?"

   "You don't want to know the answer to that."

   Bebe grinned. "I knew there was a reason you used to hate me."

   "I didn't hate you," Craig said. "I only resented you."

   "Oh, and that's so much better."

   "It's the distant past. I didn't even know you, and then you were around all the time. Back then, I kind of wanted the band thing to be just for me and Clyde," he admitted, though there was no real reason to. "But now it's not, and here we are."

   "Here we are," Bebe agreed. "Everything's changing."

   "I don't want things to change too much."

   "No?"

   "No," Craig said. "That's the problem."  

    They sat out for a while longer, mostly silent: Craig rested his head on Bebe's shoulder and she let him, without comment, and he considered how grateful he was that he knew her, and even that Clyde had dated her. He would have made no effort to get to know her otherwise, wouldn't have given half a shit about her under-the-table detention viewing habits if they hadn't been forced into the same circle, if it hadn't been the one of the very few things they had in common back then, something to grasp at. Probably she had thought the same of him. Craig had been blind not to see it: he was a bully, and she was a bitch, and for all that they'd grown out of those traits, in hindsight, it only made sense. 

   When they crept back through the hallway and past the kitchenette, the apartment was silent: no whispering, no arguing, and definitely no sex.

   "I don't want to go back in there," Bebe told him, quietly, as they padded across the floorboards. "That roadie fell asleep in the bed and he wont leave."

   "Fuck that," Craig said, agreeing, which was how he ended up sharing the couch with her again, squashed awkwardly between her body and the cushions, her hair in his face. He couldn't say that it was comfortable, or met his ideal sleeping conditions, considering recent events. All he could say was that he felt better, and that that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, thank you so much for all the love and support this fic has gotten so far! your patience means the world to me and i'm genuinely amazed and so flattered by how understanding everyone has been about how long this instalment has taken. <3
> 
> i went back and made some edits as usual, so please excuse any weird inconsistencies you might have noticed! if there are any more, please don't be shy about letting me know in the comments. :)


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